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ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES 


DBSIGNED 


FOR  THE  USE  OF  YOUNG  STUDENTS 


SCHOOLS  AND  ACADEMIES. 


CHARLES  NORTHEND,  A.M., 

^OTHOB    OF    "tKAOHEE    AND    PARENT,"     "  TEACHEe's    ASSISTANT, '^ 

"little  obatoe,"  " enteetaininq  dialogues,"  etc. 


A.  S.  BARNES  AND   COMPANY, 
NEW  YORK    \ND  CHICAGO. 


THE  BEST  SCHOOL  SPEAKERS. 


NORTHEND'S    SERIES, 


Northend's  Child's  Speaker. 

New  in  1870.  A  ftesh  eelection  for  the  smallest  order  of  little  folks.  Contents 
are  varied  between  proge,  poetry,  and  dialogue.  Also  exercises  for  recitation  in 
concert. 

Northend's  Little  Orator. 

Similar  in  plan  to  the  "  Child's  Speaker,"  and  for  the  same  class.  Good 
moral  lessons,  suggestive  thoughts,  and  entertaining  narrative  go  hend  in  hand 
with  the  cultivation  of  memory  and  expression. 

Northend's  National  Orator. 

A  compilation  for  interrotd'ata  cla.£se«  in  ccheols  and  academies,  containing 
the  standard  gems  of  the  l>inguage  thai  are  adapted  to  elocutionary  purposes, 
many  of  which  are  to  be  found  in  no  other  School  Speaker. 

Northend's  Entertaining  Dialognes. 

A  very  excellent  variety  of  dialogues,  humorous,  moral,  and  classical,  in  prose 
and  verse,  nearly  one  hundred  in  all.  For  exhibitions,  parlor  entertainments, 
etc.,  the  work  has  special  """gp^g  j^^ION    DEPT  , 

Swett's  Coraraon  School  Speaker. 

By  the  late  State  Superintendent  of  California.  Contains  pieces  adapted  to 
the  tastes  and  understanding  of  school  children ;  of  naodem  character,  and  ex- 
cluding much  of  the  waste  matter  which  in  similar  books  is  never  used. 


Raymond's  Patriotic  Speaker. 

A  splendid  compilation  of  the  choice  literature  of  the  last  decade— emphatically 
a  book  of  the  times,  carefully  collated  from  the  best  rhetorical  models  at  the  Bar, 
in  the  Legislature,  on  the  Platform,  and  in  the  Pulpit.  The  poetical  selections 
breathe  the  spirit  of  recent  events.  Of  course  the  topics  of  the  war  are  prominent, 
but  both  sides  are  impartially  represented. 

Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1859,  t»y 

A.    S.    BARNES   &    BURR, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern 

District  of  New  York. 

V^S  E.  D. 


REMARKS 


The  practice  of  rehearsing  dialogues  in  schools  has 
greatly  increased  within  the  last  ten  years,  causing  quite 
a  demand  for  new  selections.  When  proper  attention  is 
given  to  the  choice  of  pieces,  and  to  the  style  of  speak- 
ing, the  exercise  is  at  once  pleasant  and  profitable.  With 
a  view  to  cultivate  an  easy  and  natural  style,  it  may  be 
found  useful  for  a  class,  occasionally,  to  make  use  of 
dialogues  for  an  exercise  in  reading. 

A  further  profitable  and  pleasant  use  would  be  the 
rehearsal  of  them  at  the  home  fireside — as  an  entertain- 
ing recreation  for  evenings.  This  might  be  made  to  take 
the  place  of  objectionable  amusements,  or  occupy  time 
otherwise  spent  in  idleness.  There  is  no  better  way  for 
keeping  the  young  from  idleness  and  street-influences 
than  furnishing  them  with  pleasant  and  rational  amuse- 
ments or  occupations  at  home. 

In  the  preparation  of  this  volume,  the  compiler  has 
endeavored  to  make  a  selection  of  dialogues  that  should 
serve  to  entertain  the  young,  and  at  the  same  time  to 
avoid  such  as  were  in  any  degree  objectionable  in  their 
tendency. 

M69859 


Tl  REMARKS. 

Earnestly  hoping  that  they  may  prove  acceptable  to 
teachers  and  parents,  and  useful,  as  well  as  amusing,  to 
the  youth,  they  are  commended  to  the  kindly  considera- 
tion of  those  for  whose  use  they  have  been  arranged. 

New  Britain,  Conn., 

August  Istj  1859. 


CONTENTS. 


DIALOGUES. 

NCMB^R.  PaO> 

1.  Nothing  but  Common  People, T.  S.  Arthur, 11 

2.  On  "Writing  Compositions, S.  ff.  EaU, 13 

3.  The  Acquiescing  Wife, Sterne, 15 

4.  Happiness  not  in  Station, Anom/rrums, 17 

5.  Usefulness  Promotes  Happiness, Anonymous, 18 

6.  Dogberry's  Charge  to  the  "Watch, Shakspeare, 24 

*l.  The  Porcupine  Temper, Miss  Edgeworih, 26 

8.  Modern  Education, Anonymous, 29 

9.  Keep  Posted  Up, Anonymous, 33 

10.  Cause  of  "Winds, Boys^  and  Girls'  Mag.,  36 

11.  On  Slander, Anonymous, 37 

12.  The  Auction, The  Schoolmate, 40 

13.  The  Know-Nothing, Anonymous, 43 

14.  The  Thing  that's  Right, W.  B.  Fowle, 45 

15.  A  Law  Case, Matthews, 47 

16.  The  Folly  op  Duelino, Anonymous, 52 

17  The  Candidate  for  Congress, The  Schoolmate, 55 

18  On  Knowledge, Anonymous, 58 

19.  Pedigree, W.  B.  Fowle, GO 

20.  The  Petulant  Man, Osborne, 62 


VIU  CONTENTS. 

Number.  Pace 

21.  The  Debate, The  Schoolmate,  ...     66 

22.  On  Quackery, Anonymous, 72 

23.  The  "Way  to  John  Smith's, Pmdegast, 74 

24  The  Insult  and  the  Apology, 76 

25.  A  Lesson  on  Politeness, Oulton^ 78 

26.  Dress  and  Assurance, Anonymous, 82 

27.  Anger  and  Obstinacy, Knowles, 85 

28.  The  Actors, Shakspeare, 88 

29.  Othello  and  Iago, Shakspeare, 90 

30.  The  Satiric  Poet  and  his  Friend, Pope, 93 

31.  Dialogue  from  Macbeth, Shakspeare, 95 

32.  "William  Tell  and  his  Countrymen, Knowles, 98 

33.  Prince  Arthur  and  Hubert, Sluikspeare, 101 

34.  "WoLSEY  AND  Cromwell, Shakspeare, 105 

35.  The  Sailor's  Mother, Soulhey, 108 

36.  The  Story, J.  G.  Holland, 112 

37.  The  Churchyard, Karam^in, 119 

38.  "What  we  Love, Juvenile  Repository,. .  120 

39.  The  Land  of  Gold, Anonymous, 124 

40.  The  "Watcher  on  the  Tower, Charles  Mackay, 126 

41.  Sunrise  and  Sunset Marie  E.  Fellowes,...  128 

42.  The  Drunkard  and  his  Friend, J.  0.  Rockwell, 129 

43.  Pedantry, Anonymous, 131 

44.  Irish  Courtesy, Sedhy, 136 

45.  A  Scene  from  the  Gipsey;  or  "Whose  Son 

AM  I, Metropolitan, 139 

46.  The  Caning, Anonymous, 143 

47.  Indigestion, Anonymous, 145 

48.  A  Deceiver  Deceived, EaU, 148 

49.  The  Landlord  and  Tenant, Morion, 153 

50.  A  Temperance  Meeting, George  Gowles, 155 

51.  The  Invalid  and  the  Politician, Murphy, 159 

52.  The  Lawyer  and  the  Politician, Murphy, 161 

53.  A  Nautical  Examination      Anonymous, 1G4 


CONTENTS.  IX 

NnMBCR.  Paob. 

54.  Hard  to  Suit  All, D.P.  Page, 167 

55.  The  Student,  Farmer,  and  Minister, Anonymous, 117 

66.  The  Miser, Fielding, 183 

57.  The  Rival  Orators, W.  Simons, 185 

58.  Gentleman  and  Irish  Servant, Anonymotts 188 

59.  The  Beauties  OP  Gossip, Anonymous, 190 

60   The  Gridiron, W.  B.  Fowle, 19-1 

61.  The  Will, Anonymous, 197 

62.  The  American  Antiquary, ...W.B.  Fowle, 200 

63  Physiognomy, W.  B.  Fowle, 204 

64  The  Court, Jax:oh  Abbott, 207 

65.  Self  -Interest, Fielding,  (altered,) 218 

66.  Mercury,  Duelist,  and  Savage  . .    Dialogue  of  the  Dead,  222 

67.  Ennui, Alice  Bumey, 225 

68.  The  Revolutionaby  Pensioner, 228 

69.  The  Fortune-Teller, W.  B.  Fowle, 231 

70.  The  English  Traveler, 234 

71.  Ollapod  and  Sir  Charles  Cropland, Colman, 237 

72.  Old  Fickle  and  Tristram, AlUngion, 240 

73.  Benevolence, Anonyrrums, 243 

74.  "War, Anonymous, 247 

75.  True  Charity,  . , Anonymous, 249 

76.  The  Sensitive  Author, Sheridan, 251 

77.  Metaphysics, F.  HopUnson, 258 

78.  Logic, F.  HopUnson, 260 

79.  Natural  Philosophy, F.  ffopkinson, 261 

80.  Surgery F.  HopMnson, 262 

81.  Fidelity  Rewarded, Anonymmts, 264 

82.  Order  and  Disorder, W.  D.  Swcm, 267 

83.  A  Change  in  the  Programme, .Sterling, 269 

84.  On  an  Address  to  Dr.  Franki/n, F  HopUnson, 274 

85.  Extravagance  in  Talking, Mrs.  Barbauid, 277 

86.  A  Littlb  too  Sharp, , Arthwr, 279 

87.  NOTHINO  IH  It, Charts  MaUhcm, . ..  285 


X  CONTENTS. 

XUMBBR.  PaOB 

88.  A  Colloquy — ^History, Anonymous, 281 

89.  The  Man  and  the  Money, Stv^nid;  Schoolmate,  296 

90.  Schoolmaster  and  School  Committee, 299 

91.  Think  for  Yourself, Stud'ni&  ScTioolmcUe,  306 

92.  The  Gold  Fever, FitcJi  Poole 309 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 


DIALOGFB  -I. 

NOTHING  BUT  COMMON  PEOPLE. 


Mrs.  Lemington,  a  lady  of  education,  refinement,  and  wealth. 
Mrs.  Marygold,  formerly  a  servant  girl,  hut  now  the  wife  of  a 
'xealthy  man. 

Mrs.  Lemington.  Are  you  going  to  call  on  Mrs.  Clay- 
ton and  her  daughter,  Mrs.  Mary  gold?  You  know  they 
have  but  recently  come  among  us. 

Mrs.  Marygold.  No,  indeed  I  am  not,  Mrs.  Leming- 
ton.    I  don't  visit  every  body. 

Mrs.  L.  I  believe  the  Claytons  are  highly  respectable 
and  well-educated. 

Mrs.  M.  Kespectablel  Why,  every  body  is  getting 
respectable  nowadays.  If  they  are  respectable,  it  is 
very  lately  they  have  become  so.  What  is  Mr.  Clayton, 
I  wonder,  but  a  schoolmaster  I     It's  too  bad  that  such 

Eeople  will  come  crowding  themselves  into  genteel  neigh- 
orhoods.  The  time  was  when  to  live  in  Sycamore  Row 
was  guarantee  enough  for  any  one ;  but  now  all  kinds  of 
people  have  come  into  it. 

Mrs.  L.  I  have  never  met  Mrs.  Clayton,  but  I  am 
told  that  she  is  a  most  estimable  woman,  and  that  her 
daughters  have  been  educated  with  great  care.  Indeed, 
it  is  said  they  are  highly  accomplished  girls. 

Mrs.  M.  Well,  I  don't  care  what  is  said  of  them. 
I'm  not  going  to  keep  company  with  a  schoolmaster's 
wife  and  daughters  ;  that's  certain. 

Mrs.  L.  Do  you  think  there's  any  thing  disgraceful 
in  keeping  a  school  ? 

Mrs.  M.  No,  nor  in  making  shoes,  either.  But,  then, 
that's  no  reason  why  I  should  keep  company  with  my 
shoemaker's  wife,  is  it?  Let  common  people  associate 
together ;  that's  my  doctrine. 


12  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Mrs.  L.  But  what  do  you  mean  by  common'  people, 
Mrs.  Mary  gold? 

Mrs.  M.  Why,  I  mean  what  I  say :  poor  people  ;  peo- 
ple who  have  not  come  of  a  respectable  family.  That's 
what  I  mean. 

Mrs.  L.  I  am  not  sure  that  I  understand  your  expla- 
nation much  better  than;  I  do  your  classification.  li  you 
mean  as  you  say,  ^^uor  people,  your  objection  will  not 
aj^piyj  with  ;fulx ;  force  ,  to'  the  Claytons ;  for  they  are  in 
Ver3?  -comfottabl-e'  cire'umstances.  As  to  the  family  of 
Mr.  Clayton,  I  believe  his  father  was  a  man  of  integrity, 
though  not  rich.  And  Mrs.  Clayton's  family  I  know  to 
be  without  reproach  of  any  kind. 

Mrs.  M.  And  yet  they  are  common  people,  for  all 
that.  Wasn't  old  Clayton  a  mere  petty  dealer  in  small 
wares  ?     And  wasn't  Mrs.  Clayton's  father  a  mechanic  ? 

Mrs.  L.  Perhaps  if  some  of  us  should  go  back  a  gen- 
eration or  two,  we  might  trace  out  an  ancestor  who  held 
no  higher  place  in  society.  I  have  no  doubt  that  / 
should. 

Mrs.  M  Thank  heaven,  /have  no  fears  of  that  kind, 
r  shall  never  blush  when  my  pedigree  is  traced. 

Mrs.  L.  Nor  I  either,  I  hope.  Still  I  would  not  won- 
der if  some  one  of  my  ancestors  had  disgraced  himself; 
for  there  are  but  few  families  that  are  not  cursed  with  a 
spotted  sheep.  But  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  that,  and 
only  ask  to  be  judged  by  what  /  am,  not  by  what  my 
progenitors  have  been. 

Mrs.  M.  A  standard  that  but  few  will  respect,  let  me 
tell  you,  Mrs.  Lemington. 

Mrs.  L.  A  standard  that  far  the  largest  portion  of 
society  will  regard  as  a  true  one,  I  hope.  But  surely 
you  do  not  intend  refusing  to  call  upon  the  Claytons  for 
the  reasons  you  have  assigned,  Mrs.  Mary  gold? 

Mrs.  M.  Surely  I  do.  They  are  nothing  but  common 
people,  and  therefore  beneath  me.  I  shall  not  stoop  to 
associate  with  them,  I  assure  you. 

Mrs.  L.  Well,  I  think  I  shall  call  upon  them.  In 
fact,  I  came  to  ask  you  to  call  with  me. 

Mrs.  M.  I  should  be  glad  to  oblige  you,  Mrs.  L.,  in 
any  reasojiahle  wsij ;  but  I  can  not  descend  so  low  as  to  call 
upon  common  people.     You  will  be  stooping  if  you  call. 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  18 

Mrs.  L.  I  long  ago  learnt  that  no  one  stoops  in  doing 
a  kind  act.  Mrs.  Clayton  is  a  stranger  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, and  is  entitled  to  the  courtesy  of  a  call,  if  nothing 
more ;  and  that  1  shall  extend  to  her.  If  I  find  her  to 
be  uncongenial  in  her  tastes,  no  intimate  acquaintance 
need  be  formed.  If  she  is  congenial,  I  will  add  another 
to  my  list  of  valued  friends.  You  and  I,  I  find,  estimate 
differently.  /  judge  every  individual  by  merit,  while' 
you  judge  by  family  or  descent. 

Mrs.  M  You  can  do  as  you  please ;  but  for  myself  I 
am  particular  about  my  associates.  I  will  visit  Mrs. 
Dash  and  Mrs.  Fashion,  and  such  as  move  in  good  socie- 
ty ;  but,  as  to  your  school-teachers'  wives  and  daughters,  I 
must  be  excused. 

Mrs.  L.  {Leaving^  with  a  smile.)  Every  one  to  her 
taste,  Mrs.  Mary  gold.  I  leave  you  to  enjoy  yours,  and  I 
will  go  and  exercise  mine. 


DIALOGUE    II. 

ON  WRITING  COMPOSITION 


Laura.  Teacher,  will  you  please  to  excuse  me  from 
writing  composition  ? 

Teojcher.  Certainly,  if  there  is  any  good  reason  for 
doing  so.     Why  do  you  wish  to  be  excused,  Laura  ? 

Laura.  I  don't  know  what  to  write ;  I  can  not  write 
any  thing  fit  to  be  seen. 

Teacher.  Well,  Laura,  we  will  converse  about  it.  Do 
you  wish  to  be  excused  from  spelling,  reading,  or  writ- 
ing? 

Laura.     No,  sir. 

Teacher.  Why  not  from  these,  as  well  as  from  writing 
a  composition  ? 

Laura.  They  are  easy ;  and,  besides,  we  could  not  do 
without  a  knowledge  of  them. 

Teacher.     Could  you  always  read,  Laura? 

Laura.     No,  sir. 

Teacher.     How  is  it  that  you  can  read  now? 

Laura.     I  have  learned  to  read. 
2 


14  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Teacher,  How  long  were  you  in  trying  to  learn,  be- 
fore you  could  read  with  ease  ? 

Laura.     I  do  not  know ;  it  was  a  long  time. 

Teacher.  Did  you  tell  the  teacher  that  you  wished  to 
be  excused,  and  that  you  never  could  learn,  and  that  you 
could  not  read  in  a  way  fit  to  be  heard? 

Laura.     No,  I  did  not. 

Teacher.  I  saw  you  knitting  and  sewing,  the  other 
day;  could  you  always  knit  and  sew? 

Laura.     I  could  not. 

Teacher.     How,  then,  can  you  do  so  now  ? 

Laura.     Because  I  have  learned  how  to  do  both. 

Teacher.     How  did  you  learn? 

Laura.     By  trying. 

Teacher.  Did  you  ever  tell  your  mother  she  must  ex- 
cuse you  from  knitting  and  sewing,  because  you  did  not 
know  how,  and  could  not  sew  or  knit  fit  to  be  seen  ? 

Laura.     I  did  not. 

TecLcher.     Why  did  you  not? 

Laura.,  I  knew,  if  I  did  not  keep  trying,  I  never 
could  learn,  and  so  I  kept  on. 

Teacher.  Do  you  think  it  is  necessary  to  know  how 
to  write  letters,  and  to  express  ourselves  properly  when 
writing  ? 

Laura.     0,  yes,  sir. 

Teacher.  You  expect  to  have  occasion  to  write  letters, 
do  you  not? 

Laura.  I  presume  I  shall,  for  I  have  written  to  my 
brother  and  cousin  already. 

Teacher.  Then  you  think,  if  I  should  aid  you  in  learn- 
ing to  write  a  letter  or  other  piece  of  composition  ^rop- 
erly^  that  I  should  do  you  a  great  benefit. 

Laura.     I  suppose,  sir,  you  would. 

Teacher.  Is  it  right  for  me  to  benefit  you  and  the 
school  as  much  as  I  can  ? 

Laura.  I  suppose,  sir,  you  ought  to  aid  us  all  you 
can. 

Teacher.  Should  I  do  right,  if  I  neglected  the  means 
which  will  benefit  you? 

Laura.     No,  sir. 

Teacher.  Now  I  will  answer  you.  You  asked  if  I 
would  excuse  you  from  writing.     I  will  do  so,  if  you 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  16 

lliink  I  could  be  justified  in  neglecting  to  benefit  you  ad 
much  as  I  can.  If  you  can  say,  sincerely,  that  you  be- 
lieve it  is  my  duty  to  do  wrong  to  the  school,  by  indulg- 
ing them  in  neglecting  what  they  ought  to  learn,  then  I 
will  comply  with  your  request. 

Laura.  I  see  that  I  am  wrong  in  wishing  to  be  ex- 
cused ;  and,  much  as  I  dread  to  write  composition^  I  will 
try,  and  do  the  best  I  can. 


DIALOGUE    III. 

THE  ACQI.IESCING  WIFE 


Mr.  SJiandij.     We  should  begin  to  think,  Mrs.  ShaP 
dy,  of  putting  our  boy  into  breeches. 

Mrs.  Shandy.     We  should  so. 

Mr.  Shandy.     We  defer  it,  my  dear,  shamefully. 

Mrs.  Shandy.     I  think  we  do,  Mr.  Shandy. 

Mr.  Shandy.  Not  but  that  the  child  looks  extremely 
well  in  his  vests  and  tunics. 

Mrs.  Shandy.     He  does  look  very  well  in  them. 

Mr.  Shandy.  And,  for  that  reason,  it  would  seem  al- 
most a  sin  to  take  him  out  of  them. 

Mrs.  Shandy.     It  would  so. 

Mr.  Shandy.  But  then,  Mrs.  Shandy,  he  is  growing 
a  very  tall  lad. 

Mrs.  Shandy.  He  is  very  tall  of  his  age,  indeed,  Mr. 
Shandy. 

Mr.  Shandy.  I  can  not  imagine,  for  the  life  of  me, 
who  the  deuce  he  takes  after. 

Mrs.  Shandy.     I  can  not  even  conjecture. 

Mr.  Shandy.     I  certainly  am  very  short,  Mrs.  Shandy. 

Mrs.  Shandy.     You  are  very  short,  Mr.  Shandy ;  very. 

Mr.  Shandy.  {After  a  brief  pause.)  When  he  geta 
his  breeches  on,  he  will  look  like  a  very  beast  in  them, 
my  dear. 

Mrs.  Shandy.  He  will  be  very  awkward  in  them  at 
first. 

Mr.  Shandy.  And  'twill  be  lucky,  if  that's  the  worst 
on't. 

Mrs.  Shandy.     It  will  be  very  lucky. 


16  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Mr.  Shandy.  {After  another  pause.)  I  suppose  hell 
be  exactly  like  other  people's  children. 

Mrs.  Shandy.     Exactly,  Mr.  Shandy. 

Mr.  Shandy.  And  I  should  be  sorry  for  that.  His 
breeches  should  be  made  of  leather,  Mrs.  Shandy. 

Mrs.  Shandy.     They  will  last  him  the  longer  so. 

Mr  Shandy.     But  he  can  have  no  linings  to  'em. 

Mrs.  Shandy.     He  can  not,  Mr.  Shandy. 

Mr.  Shandy.  'Twere  better  then  to  have  them  of 
fustian. 

Mrs.  Shandy.     Nothing  can  be  better. 

Mr.  Shandy.     Except  dimity,  Mrs.  Shandy. 

Mrs.  Shandy.     That's  best  of  all,  Mr.  Shandy. 

Mr.  Shandy.  One  must  not,  however,  give  him  his 
death. 

Mrs.  Shandy.     By  no  means. 

Mr.  Shandy.  {After  quite  a  pause.)  I  am,  howevei, 
resolved  on  one  thing,  and  that  is  that  he  shall  have  no 
pockets  in  his  breeches. 

Mrs.  Shandy.  There's  no  occasion  for  any,  Mr. 
Shandy. 

Mr.  Shandy.     I  mean  in  his  coat  and  waistcoat. 

Mrs.  Shandy.     I  mean  so,  too. 

Mr.  Shandy.  Though  if  he  gets  a  gig  or  a  top — pooi 
souls,  it  is  a  crown  and  a  scepter  to  children,  you 
know — he  should  have  where  to  secure  it. 

Mrs.  Shandy.     Order  it  as  you  please,  Mr.  Shandy. 

ifr.  Shandy.  {Earnestly.)  But  don't  you  think  it 
right,  my  dear  Mrs.  Shandy  ? 

Mrs.  Shandy.  Perfectly,  Mr.  Shandy.  If  it  will  only 
please  you  it  will,  of  course,  be  right. 

Mr.  Shandy  {Angrily.)  There's  for  you  I  "Please 
me!"  You  never  will  distinguish,  Mrs.  Shandy,  nor 
shall  I  ever  teach  you  to  do  it,  betwixt  a  point  of  pleas- 
ure and  a  point  of  convenience.  Never,  never;  no, 
never. 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  17 

DIALOGUE   IV. 

HAPPINESS  NOT  IN  STATION. 

Harry.  I  wish  I  had  been  bom  rich  or  noble,  like  the 
little  princes,  dukes,  or  counts  in  the  old  countries ;  then 
I  should  not  have  to  drag  through  the  streets,  with  this 
heavy  basket  on  my  arm. 

William.  Courage,  Harry.  You  are  not  half  so  bad 
off  as  thousands  of  poor  boys  in  the  city. 

Harry.  I  know  that,  but  I'm  a  great  deal  worse  off 
than  some  are.  I  don't  see  why  I  should  have  to  work 
and  drudge  all  my  days,  when  others,  who  are  no  better 
than  I  am,  have  every  thing  they  can  wish  for,  without 
having  to  lift  a  finger. 

WUliam.  But  princely  and  noble  children  are  no 
more  likely  to  be  happy  and  contented  than  poorer  boys 
and  girls. 

Harry.  Why,  how  is  that?  Don't  little  princes  and 
nobles  have  parks,  and  mansions,  and  palaces,  and  every 
thing  that  any  body  can  want?  I  think  it  must  be  very 
nice  to  live  in  a  grand  palace,  and  be  dressed  in  fine 
clothes,  and  to  ride  out  every  day  in  a  splendid- coach 
drawn  by  gay  horses,  and  to  have  people  say,  "  There  is 
the  little  Prince^ 

William.  If  vou  should  read  some  of  the  stories 
about  the  royal  children,  you  would  change  your  mind. 
They  carry  heavier  loads  on  their  hearts  than  you  do  on 
your  arm.  Have  you  ever  heard  about  the  little  Dau- 
phin, son  of  King  Louis  the  Sixteenth  ? 

Harry.  No ;  was  his  name  Dauphin  ?  Seems  to  me 
they  might  have  given  him  a  better  name  than  that. 

William.  His  name  was  Louis.  The  oldest  son  of 
the  king  of  France  is  called  the  Dauphin,  just  as  the  old- 
est son  of  the  sovereign  of  England  is  called  Prince  of 
Wales. 

Harry.  Oh,  that's  it.  But  how  about  the  little  prince, 
lidn't  he  have  a  pleasant  life  ? 

William.  No ;  he  was  a  good  child,  and  deserved  to 
be  happy,  yet  trouble  came  to  him  when  he  was  very 
young.     The  people  of  France  took  the  crown  away 

2* 


18  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

from  his  father,  and  the  family  were  shut  up  in  the  pal 
ace  of  the  Tuilleries.  Soon  the  French  people  resolved 
to  put  King  Louis  to  death.  The  little  prince  entreated 
his  father  to  let  him  go  and  implore  the  people  on  his 
knees  not  to  kill  his  father.  Poor  boy,  his  parents  and 
aunt  were  shortly  after  led  out  to  die. 

Harry.  Why,  I  supposed  that  kings  and  queens  were 
all  loved  very  much  by  their  people.  I'm  sure  it  was 
very  cruel  to  pat  them  to  death.  But  what  became  of 
the  little  prince  ? 

William.  He  was  shut  up  in  prison  closely,  under  a 
brutal  keeper.  There  he  was  ill-treated  and  finally  left 
to  pine  away  in  sickness,  until  his  body  became  worn  out, 
and  his  quiet  spirit  went  to  live  with  the  King  of  Kings. 

Harry.  Well,  I'm  very  sorry  for  the  poor  little  prince. 
That  wasn't  a  very  happy  life,  I'm  sure. 

William.  No ;  the  life  of  a  prince,  you  see,  is  not  al- 
ways a  peaceful  and  happy  one.  Crowns  and  palaces  are 
more  troublesome  to  their  owners  than  heavy  baskets  to 
ambitious  boys.  Take  up  your  load  then,  and  show  your- 
self as  brave  in  spirit  as  you  are  strong  in  body.  Ee- 
member  that  he  only  can  be  truly  happy  who  faithfully 
and  honestly  performs  all  the  duties  required  of  him  in 
the  situation  in  which  Providence  has  placed  him.  The 
truly  great  are  the  truly  good,  and  the  truly  good  are  the 
truly  happy. 

Harry.     I  have  never  thought  of  these  things  before— 
but  if  princes  are  treated  as  you  represent,  I  am  sure  I  do 
not  wish  to  be   one.     Henceforth   my  motto  shall  be, 
"Contentment  with  my  lot,  and  happiness  in  doing  my 
duty." 


DIALOGUE    Y 

USEFULNESS  PROMOTES  HAPPINESS. 

Emma.  Well,  dear  mother,  I  have  been  to  see  Laura 
Selwyn,  as  you  desired ;  but  it  is  of  no  use.  I  can  nei- 
ther say  nor  do  any  thing  to  give  her  comfort.  Her  own 
and  her  parents'  misfortunes  press  so  heavily  on  her  spir- 
its, that  she  was  in  tears  all  the  time  I  staid,  and  did  not 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  19 

appear  to  pay  the  least  attention  to  one  word  I  said.  I 
was  wishing,  the  other  day,  that  we  were  rich,  like  Mr. 
Selwyn ;  but  if  the  loss  of  riches  would  render  me  as 
miserable  as  Laura  now  is,  I  am  sure  I  hope  we  may 
never  be  rich. 

Mrs.  Davenport.  The  rich,  Emma,  are  not  always  mis- 
erable. Indeed,  it  is  in  their  power  to  secure  to  them- 
selves happiness  of  the  most  pure  and  exalted  kind — 
tliat  of  ministering  to  the  wants  and  necessities  of  oth- 
ers— of  feeding  the  hungry,  clothing  the  naked,  and,  los- 
ing sight  of  self  and  selfish  considerations,  doing  good  to 
their  fellow-beings.  Those,  also,  who  are  not  styled  rich^ 
but  have  merely  a  competency,  and  hardly  that,  can  do 
much  in  the  same  way. 

Emma.  As  you  and  my  father  do.  You  have  but 
very  little  to  give  away,  and  yet  you  are  contin- 
ually assisting  the  destitute.  Many,  very  many,  are 
the  grateful  hearts,  who  are  ready  to  rise  up  and  call  you 
blessed. 

Mrs.  Davenport.  A  disposition  to  think  of  others  more 
than  of  ourselves,  most  surely  brings  its  own  blessing 
and  reward.  Poor  Laura's  education  has  been  miserably 
neglected  in  this  particular:  she  has  been  allowed  to 
dwell  on  her  own  wants — her  own  accomplishments — 
her  own  self — till  now,  in  this  time  of  trial  and  reverse, 
she  almost  believes  that  she  alone,  in  all  the  world,  is 
truly  miserable. 

Emma.  O  yes,  mother,  I  saw  that  very  plainly.  Mr. 
Selwyn  is  sick,  and  confined  to  his  bed.  Mrs.  Selwyn  is 
full  of  care  for  him,  and  yet  finds  time  to  try  to  comfort 
Laura;  telling  her,  if  she  can  only  see  her  and  her 
father  well  and  happy,  she  shall  little  heed  the  loss  of 
property.  Poor  George,  too,  sits  neglected  on  the  floor. 
The  servants  are  dismissed,  and  his  mother  is  obliged 
to  leave  him  with  Laura ;  but  all  his  entreaties  for  her  to 
look  at  him,  and  play  with  him,  are  ineffectual:  she  only 
says,  "Be  quiet,  George,  be  quiet;  you  know  not  how 
miserable  your  sister  is." 

Mrs.  Davenport.     Miserable  indeed,  poor  child  I 

Emma.  I  suppose  the  little  fellow  does  not  half  under- 
stand what  she  means;  but,  when  she  speaks  thus,  he 
will  weep  bitterly  to  see  her  weep.     Mrs.  Selwyn  does 


20  ENTEKTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

not  do  so,  mother.  I  really  love  her,  and  love  to  look 
at  her.  Her  whole  appearance  is  even  more  placid  and 
serene  than  usual,  excepting  when  she  looks  at  Laura ; 
and  then  it  is  easy  to  see  that  she  is  deeply  pained.  How 
can  Laura  be  so  unlike  her  mother  ? 

Mrs.  Davenport.  You  forget,  Emma,  that,  until  with- 
in, a  few  months,  Laura  has  not  lived  with  her  mother 
since  she  was  a  very  little  girl.  When  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sel- 
wyn  decided  on  going  to  India,  some  twelve  years  since, 
they  determined  on  taking  their  whole  family  with  them. 
They  then  had  three  children.  Laura  was  the  eldest, 
and  had  delicate  health ;  and,  at  the  earnest  entreaties  of 
the  aunt  for  whom  she  was  named,  her  parents  consented 
to  commit  their  daughter  to  her  care.  Their  stay  abroad 
was  protracted  far  beyond  all  expectation,  and  Laura  was 
educated  by  her  aunt.  Mrs.  Harcourt  spared  neither 
pains  nor  expense  to  give  her  niece  every  elegant  accom- 
plishment :  her  talents  were  cultivated,  but  her  heart  was 
neglected,  and  she  grew  up  thinking  only  of  herself. 

Emma.  But,  mother,  Mrs.  Harcourt  has  been  dead  a 
long  time. 

Mrs.  Davenport.  Yes;  Mrs.  Harcourt  died  about  a 
year  before  the  return  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Selwyn ;  and  that 
year  Laura  passed  at  a  fashionable  boarding-school,  a 
school  but  ill-calculated  to  supply  the  deficiencies  in  her 
previous  education.  Her  mother  often  laments  the  mis- 
taken course  that  has  been  pursued  with  her  child ;  but 
still  she  hopes  and  believes  that  some  of  the  good  seed 
sown  in  early  infancy  may  yet  spring  up,  and  flourish, 
and  bear  fruit.  I  know  she  will  faithfully  labor  for 
the  improvement  of  her  daughter,  and  I  trust  she  will 
not  find  herself  entirely  disappointed  in  her  hopes. 

Emma.  I  am  very  sure  she  will  not.  Laura  has 
many  kind,  and  good,  and,  I  believe  I  may  add,  great 
qualities. 

Mrs.  Davenport.  I  agree  with  you,  Emma;  and  I 
shall  not  be  surprised  if  this  very  event  should  prove 
the  means  of  calling  them  into  action.  It  is  often  thus 
in  the  course  of  the  divine  providence.  What  we  re- 
gard as  calamity,  and  meet  with  dread,  would  not  be  so 
regarded,  and  so  met,  could  we  view  it  in  all  its  bear- 
ings.    Our  greatest  trials   always  become   our  greatest 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  21 

blessings,  when  we  permit  tliem  to  humble  and  instruct 
us. 

Ihnma.  Mother,  I  was  wishing  to  ask  you  what  be- 
came of  the  rest  of  Mr.  Selwyn's  family.  You  spoke  of 
other  children. 

Mrs.  Davenport.  Both  the  children  who  accompanied 
their  parents,  died  abroad;  and  little  George  is  the  only 
one,  of  several  born  in  India,  who  lived  to  return  with 
them.  Mr.  Selwyn  was  greatly  prospered  in  his  exer- 
tions for  obtaining  property ;  but  his  health  fell  a  sacri- 
fice to  those  exertions ;  and  now,  in  the  decline  of  life, 
he  also  has  to  experience  all  the  evils  attendant  on  pov- 
erty. I  understand  that  his  immense  property  is  entirely 
gone,  either  by  the  negligence,  misfortunes,  or  wicked- 
ness of  those  in  whom  he  confided ;  but  he  meets  the 
trial  with  the  firmness  of  a  man  and  the  submission  of 
a  Christian ;  and  his  wife's  feelings  are  in  perfect  unison 
with  his  own.  T  trust  they  may  yet  find  much  comfort 
in  the  children  who  are  spared  to  them,  and  that  their 
last  days  may  prove  to  be  their  best  days. 

{Enter  a  servant.)  Servant.  Madam,  Miss.  Selwyn  is 
below,  inquiring  for  you  and  Miss  Emma. 

Mrs.  Davenport.  Let  us  hasten  to  Laura,  dear  Emma 
It  may  be  in  our  power  to  be  useful  to  her. 

Mrs.  Davenport.,  Emma  Dwcenport,  and  Laura  Selwyn.. 

Laura.  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Davenport.  My  deai 
Emma,  I  have  called  to  apologize  for  my  manner  of  re- 
ceiving your  kind  visit  this  morning. 

Emma.  No  apology  is  necessary,  Laura.  I  saw  that 
your  heart  was  very  full,  and  I  had  no  right  to  expect 
much  attention,  and  no  wish  to  receive  it. 

Laura.  You  should  have  received  it.  I  well  knew 
that  your  visit  was  dictated  by  motives  of  the  purest 
kindness,  and  I  also  knew  that  your  mother  was  my 
mother's  most  valued  friend.  But,  Emma,  I  have  had  a 
hard,  hard  week.  At  the  time  you  came  in,  I  was  once 
more  endeavoring  to  persuade  myself  that,  in  the  whole 
world,  there  was  no  one  more  entirely  deserving  than 
myself  of  QYory  good  thing,  and  yet  so  perfectly  miser- 
able 1     But  it  would  not  do.     I  could  not  really  believe  it. 


22  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  ^ 

I  thought  of  my  parents — of  my  only  remaining  little 
brother;  I  thought  of  you,  and  your  parents.  I  drew  a 
comparison  between  us,  and  it  was  almost  too  much  for 
me.  But  now  I  hope  the  struggle  is  past,  and  that  in  future 
I  shall  find  my  own  happiness  in  doing  good  to  others. 

Emma.     Mother,  dear  mother,  'tis  as  we  hoped. 

Laura.  When  I  was  a  very  little  child,  long  before  I 
went  to  live  with  Aunt  Harcourt,  if,  from  any  cause,  I 
felt  particularly  sad  or  unhappy,  my  mother  would  al- 
ways endeavor  to  draw  my  attention  from  my  own  child- 
ish sorrows  and  perplexities,  by  busily  employing  me  for 
some  other  person ;  and  very  often  I  have  entirely  for- 
gotten my  own  trifling  vexations,  in  doing  some  little 
thing  for  her,  or  my  father,  or  my  little  brother  and  sis- 
ter. It  was  not  so  after  I  left  her ;  and,  till  this  very 
day,  I  had  well  nigh  forgotten  that  it  ever  was  thus ;  but 
the  remembrance  of  days  long  gone  by  has  returned  to 
me,  and  I  feel  that  it  may  be  so  again ;  that  in  striving 
to  do  good  to  others,  I  may,  in  some  measure,  answer' 
the  great  end  of  my  being,  and  therefore  be  happier 
than  I  ever  yet  have  been ;  that  I  may  be  able  even  to 
assist  my  own  dear  parents  in  this  hour  of  need. 

Emma.  My  dear,  dear  Laura,  how  I  rejoice  to  hear 
you  speak  thus ! 

Mrs.  Davenport.  (  With  much  emotion^  hut  endeavoring  to 
speak  calmly.)  Have  you  formed  any  plans,  Laura?  Can 
I  assist  you?  Both  Mr.  Davenport  and  myself  will  re- 
joice to  do  so. 

Laura.  I  depend  much  on  your  kindness  and  aid. 
You  well  know  that  I  possess  very  little  truly  useful  in- 
formation, such  as  would  qualify  me  for  a  regular  gov- 
erness or  teacher ;  but  I  am  said  to  excel  in  music  and 
drawing,  and  it  is  my  wish  to  obtain  pupils  in  these 
branches.  This  will  occupy  but  a  part  of  my  time ;  the 
remainder  shall  be  devoted  to  assisting  my  mother  in  her 
d.)mestic  affairs,  and  in  taking  care  of  my  father  and  lit- 
tle George.  Perhaps  you  will  smile  to  hear  me  say  this; 
and  I  doubt  not  but,  at  first,  I  shall  appear  ignorant  and 
awkward  enough  to  make  any  one  smile ;  but  my  heart 
is  in  it,  and  I  trust  I  may  be  enabled  to  learn  to  be  use- 
ful. It  shall  no  longer  be  true  that  Laura  Selwyn  is  liv- 
ing for  herself  alone. 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  28 

Mrs.  Davenport.  Your  good  resolutions  give  me  sin- 
cere joy,  dearest  Laura.  Once  more  let  me  repeat  mj 
earnest  wish  to  assist  you  in  every  way  in  my  power, 
though  that  power  is  but  very  limited. 

Emma.  Dear  mother,  your  good  word  goes  a  great 
way  with  every  body  who  knows  you. 

Laura.  Indeed  it  does,  Emma.  Your  father's  and 
mother's  good  word  is  of  great  consequence  to  me  in 
tliis  neighborhood,  where  we  are  so  nearly  strangers,  and 
where  the  little  that  is  known  of  me  must  be  so  very  un- 
favorable. I  have  talked  over  the  whole  matter  with 
my  own  dear  mother,  and  she  advised  me  to  consult  you. 
I  left  her  in  tears — the  first  tears  I  have  seen  her  shed  since 
our  misfortunes ;  but  she  assured  me  they  were  caused 
by  the  joy  of  her  heart  at  the  change  in  the  feelings  of 
her  child.  Oh,  how  much  grief  I  have  caused  to  my 
excellent  parents ! 

Emma.  But  you  will  cause  them  no  more  sorrow, 
dearest  Laura.  You  will  be  a  blessing  to  your  parents 
now. 

Laura.  I  feel  altogether  insufficient,  of  myself,  to  do 
any  good  thing.  How  many  years  of  my  life  have  I 
wickedly  misspent!  how  many  advantages  miserably 
perverted ! 

Mrs.  Davenport.  Your  humility  and  self-distrust,  my 
dear  girl,  furnish  strong  hopes  of  the  sincerity  of  your 
good  resolutions.  I  fully  believe  they  will  prove  neither 
transient  nor  delusive.  Doubt  not  but  you  will  find  an 
all-sufficient  help  in  your  Heavenly  Father.  Cast  your 
cares  and  burthens  on  Him,  and  he  will  sustain  you. 
And,  now,  my  children,  let  us  hasten  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Selwyn,  not  to  mourn,  but  to  rejoice  with  them. 
Their  property  is  lost,  but  their  wandering  child  is  re- 
claimed— their  precious  daughter  is  restored  to  them. 


24  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

DIALOGUE   VI. 

DOGBERRY'S  CHARGE  TO  THE  WATCH. 

Dogherry —  Verges —  Watch. 

Dogberry.     Are  you  good  men  and  true? 

Verges.  Yea,  or  else  it  were  pity  but  they  should  su^ 
fer  salvation,  body  and  soul. 

Dogberry.  Nay,  that  were  a  punishment  too  good  for 
them,  if  they  should  have  any  allegiance  in  them,  being 
chosen  for  the  prince's  watch. 

Verges.  Well,  give  them  their  charge,  neighbor  Dog- 
berry. 

Dogberry.  First,  who  think  you  the  most  desartlesa 
man  to  be  constable  ? 

1  Watch.  Hugh  Oatcake,  sir,  or  George  Seacoal;  for 
they  can  write  and  read. 

Dogberry.  Come  hither,  neighbor  Seacoal.  God  hath 
blessed  you  with  a  good  name:  to  be  a  well-favored 
man  is  the  gift  of  fortune ;  but  to  write  and  read  cx)mes 
by  nature. 

2  Watch.  Both  which,  master  constable — 
Dogberry.  You  have ;  I  knew  it  would  be  your  an- 
swer. W^ll,  for  your  favor,  sir,  why  give  God  thanks, 
and  make  no  boast  of  it ;  and  for  your  writing  and  read- 
ing, let  that  appear  when  there  is  no  need  of  such  vani- 
ty. You  are  thought  here  to  be  the  most  senseless  and 
fit  man  for  the  constable  of  the  watch ;  therefore,  bear 
you  the  lantern.  This  is  your  charge : — ^you  shall  com- 
prehend all  vagrom  men ;  you  are  to  bid  any  man  stand 
in  the  prince's  name. 

2  Watch.     How  if  he  will  not  stand  ? 

Dogberry.  Why,  then,  take  no  note  of  him,  but  let 
him  go ;  and  presently  call  the  rest  of  the  watch  togeth- 
er, and  thank  God  you  are  rid  of  a  knave. 

Verges.  If  he  will  not  stand,  when  he  is  bidden,  he  \s 
none  of  the  prince's  subjects. 

Dogberry.  True ;  and  they  are  to  meddle  with  none 
but  the  prince's  subjects.  You  shall  also  make  no  noise 
in  the  streets ;  for,  for  the  watch  to  babble  and  talk  is 
most  tolerable,  and  not  to  be  endured. 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  25 

2  Watch.  We  will  rather  sleep  than  talk;  we  know 
what  belongs  to  a  watch. 

Dogberry.  Why,  you  speak  like  an  ancient  and  most 
quiet  watchman ;  for  I  can  not  see  how  sleeping  should 
offend :  only,  have  a  care  that  your  bills  be  not  stolen : — 
Well,  you  are  to  call  at  all  the  ale-houses,  and  bid  those 
tliat  are  drunk  get  them  to  bed. 

2   Watch.     How  if  they  will  not? 

Dogberry.  Why,  then,  let  them  alone  till  they  are 
sober ;  if  they  make  you  not  then  the  better  answer,  you 
may  say,  they  are  not  the  men  you  took  them  for. 

Dogberry.  If  you  meet  a  thief,  you  may  suspect  him, 
by  virtue  of  your  office,  to  be  no  true  man :  and,  for 
such  kind  of  men,  the  less  you  meddle  or  make  with 
them,  why,  the  more  is  for  your  honesty. 

2  Watch.  If  we  know  him  to  be  a  thief,  shall  we  not 
lay  hands  on  him? 

Dogberry.  Truly,  by  your  office,  you  may;  but  I 
think  they  that  touch  pitch  will  be  defiled:  the  most 
peaceable  way  for  you,  if  you  do  take  a  thief,  is,  to  let 
him  show  himself  what  he  is,  and  steal  out  of  your 
company. 

Verges.  You  have  been  always  called  a  merciful  man, 
partner. 

Dogberry.  Truly,  I  would  not  hang  a  dog,  by  my 
will ;  much  more  a  man  who  hath  any  honesty  in  him. 

Verges.  If  you  hear  a  child  cry  in  the  night,  you 
m'ist  call  to  the  nurse,  and  bid  her  still  it. 

2.  Watch.  How  if  the  nurse  be  asleep,  and  will  not 
hear  us? 

Dogberry.  Why,  then,  depart  in  peace,  and  let  the 
child  wake  her  with  crying:  for  the  ewe  that  will  not 
hear  her  lamb  when  it  baas,  will  never  answer  a  calf 
when  he  bleats. 

Verges.     'Tis  very  true. 

Dogberry.  This  is  the  end  of  the  charge.  You,  con- 
stable, are  to  present  the  prince's  own  person ;  if  you 
meet  the  prince  in  the  night,  you  may  stay  him. 

Verges.     Nay,  by'r  lady,  that,  I  think,  he  can  not. 

Dogberry.  Five  shillings  to  one  on't,  with  any  man 
that  knows  the  statutes,  he  may  stay  him :  marry,  not 
without  the  prince  be  willing:  for,  indeed,  the  watch 

3 


26  ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES. 

ought  to  offend  no  man ;  and  it  is  an  offense  to  stay  a 
man  against  his  will. 

Verges.     By'r  lady,  I  think  it  be  so. 

Dogberry.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Well  masters,  good  night: 
an'  there  be  any  matter  of  weight  chances,  call  me  up : 
keep  your  fellows'  counsels  and  your  own,  and  good 
night.     Come,  neighbor. 

2.  Watch.  Well,  masters,  we  hear  our  charge:  let  us 
go  sit  here  uj)on  the  church-bench  till  two,  and  then  all 
go  to  bed. 

Dogberry.  One  word  more,  honest  neighbors :  I  pray 
you  watch  about  Signor  Leonato's  door ;  for  the  wedding 
neing  there  to-morrow,  there  is  a  great  coil  to-night ; — 
adieu,  be  vigilant,  I  beseech  you. 


DIALOGUE  VII. 

THE  PORCUPINE  TEMPER. 


Mrs.  BolingbroTce.  I  wish  I  knew  what  was  the  mat- 
ter with  me  this  morning.  Why  do  you  keep  the  news- 
paper all  to  yourself,  my  dear? 

Mr.  Bolingbroke.  Here  it  is  for  you,  my  dear:  I  have 
finished  it. 

Mrs.  Bolingbroke.  I  humbly  thank  you  for  giving  it 
to  me  when  you  have  done  with  it — T  hate  stale  news. 
Is  there  any  thing  in  the  paper?  for  I  can  not  be  at  the 
trouble  of  hunting  it. 

Mr.  Bolingbroke.  Yes,  my  dear;  there  are  the  mar- 
riages of  two  of  our  friends. 

Mrs.  Bolingbroke.     Who?  who? 

Mr,  Bolingbroke.  Your  friend,  the  widow  Nettleby, 
to  hcT  cousin,  John  Nettleby. 

Mrs.  Bolingbroke.  Mrs.  Nettie])y !  Lord !  But  why 
did  you  tell  me? 

Mr.  Biolingbroke.     Because  you  asked  me,  my  dear. 

Mrs.  Bolingbroke.  Oh,  but  it  is  a  hundred  times  pleas- 
anter  to  read  the  paragraph  one's  self.  One  loses  all  the 
pleasure  of  the  surprise  by  being  told.  WrJJ;  whose 
was  the  other  marriage? 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  27 

Mr.  Bolinghroke.  Oh,  my  dear,  I  will  not  tell  you ;  I 
will  leave  you  the  pleasure  of  the  surprise. 

Mrs.  Bolinghrolce.  But  you  see  I  can  not  find  it. 
How  provoking  you  are,  my  dear!     Do  pray  tell  it  me. 

Mr.  Bolinghroke.     Our  friend,  Mr.  Granby. 

Mrs.  Bolinghrolce.  Mr.  Granby!  Dear!  Why  did 
you  not  make  me  guess?  I  should  have  guessed  him  di- 
rectly. But  why  do  you  call  him  our  friend?  I  am 
sure  he  is  no  friend  of  mine,  nor  ever  was.  I  took  an 
aversion  to  him,  as  you  may  remember,  the  very  first 
day  I  saw  him.     I  am  sure  he  is  no  friend  of  mine. 

Mr.  Bolinghroke.  I  am  sorry  for  it,  my  dear;  but  1 
hope  you  will  go  and  see  Mrs.  Granby. 

Mrs.  Bolinghroke.  Not  I,  indeed,  my  dear.  Who  was 
she? 

Mr.  Bolinghroke.     Miss  Cooke. 

Mrs.  Bolinghroke.  Cooke!  But  there  are  so  many 
Cookes:  can't  you  distinguish  her  in  someway?  Has 
she  no  Christian  name  ? 

Mr.  Bolinghroke.     Emma,  I  think.     Yes,  Emma. 

Mrs.  Bolinghroke.  Emma  Cooke!  No;  it  can  not  be 
my  friend,  Emma  Cooke ;  for  I  am  sure  she  was  cut  out 
for  ah  old  maid. 

Mr.  Bolinghroke.  This  lady  seems  to  me  to  be  cut  out 
for  a  good  wife. 

Mrs.  Bolinghroke.  May  be  so — I  am  sure  I'll  never  gKi 
to  see  her.  Pray,  my  dear,  how  came  you  to  see  so 
much  of  her? 

Mr.  Bolinghroke.  I  have  seen  very  little  of  her,  my 
dear.  I  only  saw  her  two  or  three  times  before  she  was 
married. 

Mrs.  Bolinghroke.  Then,  my  dear,  how  could  you  de- 
cide that  she  was  cut  out  for  a  good  wife  ?  I  am  sure 
you  could  not  judge  of  her  by  seeing  her  only  two  or 
three  times,  and  before  she  was  married. 

Mr.  Bolinghroke.  Indeed,  my  love,  that  is  a  very  just 
observation. 

Mrs.  Bolingh'oke.  I  understand  that  compliment  per- 
icctly,  and  thank  you  for  it,  my  dear.  I  must  own  I  can 
bear  any  thing  better  than  irony. 

Mr.  Bolinghroke.  Irony !  my  dear,  I  was  perfectly  in 
earnest. 


28  ENTERTAININb    DIALOGUES. 

Mrs.  Bolinghrohe.  Yes,  yes :  in  earnest — so -I  perceive 
I  may  naturally  be  dull  of  apprehension,  but  my  feelings 
are  quick  enough ;  I  comprehend  you  too  well.  Yes — 
it  is  impossible  to  judge  of  a  woman  before  marriage,  or 
to  guess  what  sort  of  a  wife  she  will  make.  I  presume 
you  speak  from  experience ;  you  have  been  disappointed 
yourself,  and  repent  your  choice. 

Mr.  Bolinghrohe.  My  dear,  what  did  I  say  that  was 
like  this?  Upon  my  word,  I  meant  no  such  thing.  I 
really  was  not  thinking  of  you  in  the  least. 

Mrs.  Bolinghrohe.  No — ^}^ou  never  think  of  me,  now. 
I  can  easily  believe  that  you  were  not  thinking  of  me,  in 
the  least. 

Mr.  Bolinghrohe.  But  I  said  that,  only  to  prove  to  you 
that  I  could  not  be  thinking  ill  of  you,  my  dear. 

Mrs.  Bolinghrohe.  But  I  would  rather  that  you  thought 
ill  of  me,  than  that  you  did  not  think  of  me  at  all. 

Mr.  Bolinghrohe.  {Laughing.)  Well,  my  dear,  I  will 
even  think  ill  of  you,  if  that  will  please  you. 

Mrs.  Bolinghrohe.  Do  you  laugh  at  me?  When  it 
comes  to  this,  I  am  wretched  indeed.  Never  man 
laughed  at  the  woman  he  loved.  As  long  as  you  had 
the  slightest  remains  of  love  for  me,  you  could  not  make 
me  an  object  of  derision :  ridicule  and  love  are  incom- 
patible; absolutely  incompatible.  Well,  I  have  done 
my  best,  my  yqtj  best,  to  make  you  happy,  but  in  vain. 
I  see  I  am  not  cut  out  to  be  a  good  wife.  Happy,  happy 
Mrs.  Grranby ! 

Mr.  Bolinghrohe.  Happy,  I  hope  sincerely,  that  she 
will  be  with  my  friend;  but  my  happiness  must  depend 
on  you,  my  love ;  so,  for  my  sake,  if  not  for  your  own, 
be  composed,  and  do  not  torment  yourself  with  such 
fancies. 

Mrs.  Bolinghrohe.  I  do  wonder  whether  this  Mrs. 
Granby  is  really  that  Miss  Emma  Cooke.  I'll  go  and 
see  her  directly ;  see  her  I  must. 

Mr.  Bolinghrohe.  I  am  heartily  glad  of  it,  my  dear; 
for  I  am  sure  a  visit  to  his  wife  will  give  my  friend 
Granby  real  pleasure. 

Mrs.  Bolinghrohe.  I  promise  you,  my  dear,  I  do  not 
go  to  give  him  pleasure,  or  you  either ;  but  to  satisfy  mv 
own — curiosity. 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  29 

DIALOGUE   VIII. 

MODERN  EDUCATION. 

Teacher.  (Alone.)  I  am  "heartily  sick  of  this  modern 
mode  of  education.  Nothing  but  trash  will  suit  the 
taste  of  people  at  this  day.  I  am  perplexed  beyond  all 
endurance  with  these  frequent  solicitations  of  parents  to 
give  their  children  graceful  airs,  polite  accomplishments, 
and  a  smattering  of  what  they  call  the  fine  arts;  while 
nothing  is  said  about  teaching  them  the  substantial 
branches  of  literature.  If  they  can  but  dance  a  little, 
fiddle  a  little,  flute  a  little,  and  make  a  handsome  bow 
and  courtesy,  that  is  sufficient  to  make  them  famous,  in 
this  enlightened  age.  Three-fourths  of  tbe  teachers  of 
those  arts,  which  once  were  esteemed  most  valuable,  will 
soon  be  out  of  employment,  at  this  rate.  For  my  part, 
I  am  convinced,  that,  if  I  had  been  a  dancing-master, 
music-master,  stage-player,  or  mountebank,  I  should  have 
been  much  more  respected,  and  much  better  supported, 
than  I  am  at  present. 

(Enter  Parent.) 

Parent.  Your  humble  servant,  sir;  are  you  the  prin 
cipal  of  this  school  ? 

Teacher.     I  am,  at  your  service,  sir. 

Parent.  I  have  heard  much  of  the  fame  of  your  insti- 
tution, and  am  desirous  of  putting  a  son,  of  about  twelve 
years  of  age,  under  your  tuition.  I  suppose  you  have 
masters  who  teach  the  various  branches  of  the  polite  arts. 

Teacher.  We  are  not  inattentive  to  those  arts,  sir; 
but  the  fame  of  our  school  does  not  rest  upon  them. 
Useful  learning  is  our  grand  object.  What  studies  do 
you  wish  to  put  your  son  upon  ? 

Parent.  I  wish  him  to  be  perfected  in  music,  dancing, 
drawing,  etc. ;  and,  as  he  possesses  a  promising  genius  for 
poetry,  I  would  by  all  means  have  that  cultivated. 

T'eacher.  These  are  not  all  the  branches,  I  trust,  in 
which  he  is  to  be  instructed.  You  mention  nothing  of 
reading,  writing,  arithmetic,  language,  &c.  Are  these  to 
be  wholly  neglected  ? 

8* 


80  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Parent  Why,  as  to  these  every-day  branches,  I  can  not 
say  I  feel  very  anxious  about  them.  The  boy  reads  well 
now,  writes  a  decent  hand,  is  acquainted  with  the 
ground  rules  of  arithmetic,  and  pronounces  the  English 
language  genteelly.  He  has  been  a  long  time  under  the 
care  of  Mr.  Honestus,  our  town  schoolmaster,  who  has 
taught  him  all  these  things  sufficient^.  So  that  I  think 
any  more  time  devoted  to  them  would  be  wasted. 

Teacher.  Yes,  if  he  is  such  an  adept  that  there  is  no 
room  for  his  progressing  in  those  arts ;  yet  I  think,  at  least, 
there  is  need  of  practice,  lest,  at  his  age,  he  should  forget 
what  he  has  learned. 

Parent.  That  I  shall  leave  to  your  discretion.  But 
there  is  one  branch,  of  great  importance,  which  I  have 
not  yet  mentioned,  and  to  which  I  would  have  particular 
attention  paid;  I  mean  the  art  of  speaking.  You  will 
find  him  not  deficient  in  that  respect;  though  perhaps  it 
requires  as  much  practice  to  make  one  perfect  in  that,  as 
in  any  art  whatever.  He  has  already  learned  by  heart  a 
great  number  of  pieces,  and  has  acted  a  part  in  several 
comedies  and  tragedies,  with  much  applause.  It  has  been 
the  custom  of  our  master  to  have  an  exhibition  at  least 
once  a  quarter ;  and  my  son  has  always  been  considered 
as  one  of  his  best  performers.  He  lately  took  the  part 
of  Jemmy  Jumps,  in  the  farce  called  The  Farmer,  and 
acted  it  to  universal  acceptation. 

Teacher.  I  must  confess,  sir,  that  your  account  of 
your  son  does  not  appear  to  me  to  be  very  flattering. 

Parent.  Why  so,  pray  ?  have  you  not  an  ear  for  elo- 
quence? 

Teacher.  Indeed  I  have,  sir.  No  man  is  more 
charmed  than  I  am  with  its  enrapturing  sounds.  No 
music  rests  sweeter  on  my  ear  than  the  melodious  notes 
proceeding  from  the  mouth  of  a  judicious,  well-instruct- 
ed, and  powerful  orator.  But  I  must  tell  you  plainly, 
that  I  am  by  no  means  pleased  to  see  parents  take  so 
much  pains  to  transform  their  children  into  monkeys 
instead  of  men.  What  signs  of  oratory  do  you  imagine 
you  can  discern  in  a  boy,  rigged  out  in  a  fantastical 
dress,  skipping  about  the  stage  like  a  baboon,  in  the 
character  of  Jemmy  Jumps,  Betty  Jumps,  or  any  othei 
jumper? 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  81 

Parent,     Do  you  not  approve  of  exhibitions,  then  ? 

Teacher.  Certainly  I  do,  if  they  are  rightly  conducted, 
and  do  not  occur  too  often.  But  a  master,  who  has  four 
in  a  year,  must  necessarily  rob  his  pupils  of  one-quarter 
of  that  time  which,  in  my  opinion,  might  be  much  bet- 
ter employed  in  attending  to  what  would  be  useful  for 
them  in  life. 

Parent.  What  can  be  more  useful  for  a  child,  under 
such  a  government  as  ours,  than  to  be  able  to  speak  be- 
fore an  audience  with  a  graceful  ease,  and  a  manful  dig- 
nity? My  son,  for  aught  I  know,  may  be  a  member  of 
congress  before  he  dies. 

leacher.  For  that  very  reason  I  would  educate  him 
differently.  I  would  lay  the  foundation  of  his  future 
fame  on  the  firm  basis  of  the  solid  sciences  ;  that  he  might 
be  able  in  time  to  do  something  more  than  a  mere  parrot, 
or  an  ape,  who  are  capable  only  of  speaking  the  words, 
and  mimicking  the  actions  of  others.  He  should  first  be 
taught  to  read.  He  should  likewise  be  taught  to  com- 
pose for  himself;  and  I  would  not  be  wanting  in  my  en- 
deavors to  make  him  a  speaker. 

Parent.  Surely,  Mr.  Teacher,  you  must  be  very 
wrong  in  your  notions.  I  have  ever  pursued  a  different 
plan  with  my  children ;  and  there  are  none  in  the  coun- 
try, though  I  say  it  myself,  who  are  more  universally 
caressed.  I  have  a  daughter  that  has  seen  but  fourteen 
years,  who  is  capable  of  gracing  the  politest  circles.  It 
is  allowed  that  she  can  enter  and  leave  a  room  with  as 
much  ease  and  dignity  as  any  lady  of  quality  whatever. 
And  this  is  evidently  owing  altogether  to  her  polite  edu- 
cation. I  boarded  her  a  year  in  the  capital,  where  she 
enjoyed  every  possible  advantage.  She  attended  the 
most  accomplished  masters  in  the  ornamental  branches 
of  science,  visited  the  gen teelest  families,  and  frequented 
all  the  scenes  of  amusement.  It  is  true,  her  letters  are 
not  always  written  quite  so  accurately  as  could  be  wished  ; 
yet  she  dances  well,  plays  well  on  the  piano-forte,  and 
sings  like  a  nightingale. 

Teacher.  Does  she  know  the  art  of  making  a  good 
pudding?  Can  she  darn  a  stocking  well?  or  is  she  ca- 
pable of  patching  the  elbows  of  her  husband's  coat, 
should  she  ever  be  so  lucky  as  to  get  one  ?     If  she  is  tc 


32  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

remain  ignorant  of  all  such  domestic  employments,  as 
mucli  as  I  value  her  other  accomplishments,  and  as  much 
as  I  might  be  in  want  of  a  wife,  I  would  not  many  her 
with  twice  her  weight  in  gold. 

Parent.  Her  accomplishments  will  command  her  a 
husbmd  as  soon  as  she  wishes.  But  so  long  as  a  single 
cent  of  my  property  remains,  her  delicate  hands  shall 
never  be  so  unworthily  employed. 

Teacher.  But  suppose  a  reverse  of  fortune  should  over- 
take you,  what  is  to  become  of  the  child ;  as  you  say  she 
understands  nothing  of  domestic  affairs?  Will  it  be 
more  honorable,  do  you  imagine,  for  her  to  be  main- 
tained by  the  charities  of  the  people  than  by  her  own 
industry  ? 

Parent.  There  are  many  ways  for  her  to  be  support- 
ed. I  would  not  have  you  think  she  is  wholly  ignorant 
of  the  use  of  the  needle,  though  she  never  employed  it 
in  so  disgraceful  a  manner  as  that  of  darning  stockings ! 
or  botching  tattered  garments!  But  we  will  waive  that 
subject,  and  attend  to  the  other.  Will  you  receive  the 
boy,  for  the  purposes  beforementioned  ? 

Teacher.  Why,  indeed,  sir,  I  can  not.  Though  I  am 
far  from  condemning  altogether  your  fiivorite  branches, 
yet  I  consider  them  all  as  subordinate,  and  some  of  them, 
at  least,  totally  useless.  We  devote  but  a  small  portion 
of  our  time  to  the  attainment  of  such  superficial  accom- 
plishments. I  would  therefore  recommend  it  to  you,  to 
commit  him  to  the  care  of  those  persons  who  have 
been  so  successful  in  the  instruction  of  his  sister. 

Parent.  I  confess  I  am  so  far  convinced  of  the  propri- 
ety of  your  method,  that,  if  you  will  admit  him  into 
your  school,  I  will  renounce  all  right  of  dictating  to  you 
his  lessons  of  instruction,  except  in  one  single  instance : 
and  in  that  I  am  persuaded  we  shall  not  disagree  ;  I  mean 
the  art  of  speaking. 

Teacher.  In  regard  to  speaking  I  would  not  have  my 
vnews  and  feelings  misunderstood.  I  think  it  a  very  im- 
portant exercise,  and  one  which  should  receive  more  at- 
tention in  all  our  schools.  But  I  feel  that  special  care 
should  be  used  in  the  selection  of  pieces,  and  that  ever}^ 
thing  which  tends  to  the  cultivation  of  a  perverted  or 
false  taste  should  be  strictly  avoided.  The  mxatter  no  less 
':han  the  manner  should  be  regarded. 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  33 

Parent  On  these  points  we  shall  not  differ,  and  I  shall 
be  happy  to  intrust  my  son  to  one  whose  views  are  so 
correct  and  sound. 


DIALOGUE    IX 

KEEP  POSTED  UP. 


{Mr.  Active  is  seated^  loohing  over  the  neicspaper,  when  Mr.  Modera- 
tion enters.) 

Mr.  Active     Exciting  times  these,  neighbor  Moderation. 

Mr.  Moderation.  How's  that  ?  What  do  you  say  about 
the  times  ? 

Mr.  A.     I  refer  to  the  war  in  the  East. 

Mr.  M.  Wh}^,  do  tell  me  if  they  are  at  it  again.  Well 
them  Down  Easters  always  was  a  quarrelsome  set  of 
folks.  They  ought  to  be  sot  off  from  the  rest  of  the 
country. 

Mr.  A.  Oh,  I  don't  mean  them :  they  are  not  fighting. 
It  is  Turkey  and  Russia,  and  England  and  France  have 
sided  with  Turkey.     Napoleon  has  sent  out  quite  a  fleet. 

Mr.  M  Napoleon !  Why  I  thought  he  was  dead 
long  ago      The  history  says  so. 

Mr.  A.  Yes,  but  this  is  his  nephew,  Louis  Napoleon, 
they  call  him.     He  is  the  emperor  of  the  French. 

Mr.  M.  Why,  I  thought  Louis  Philippe  was  the  em- 
peror. 

Mr.  A,     He  was ;  but  he  is  dead  now. 

Mr.  M.  Well  that  beats  all :  that  he  is  dead,  and  I 
not  know  it.  Have  you  any  more  news,  neighbor  Act- 
ive? 

Mr.  A.  I  learn  from  the  paper  that  the  Nebraska  ]>ill 
has  been  disposed  of. 

Mr.  M.  Hung,  you  mean,  I  suppose.  Well,  I'm  glad 
of  it.     He  deserved  it. 

Mr.  A.     Why  so,  neighbor? 

Mr.  M.  Why  so?  Why,  any  body  that'll  keep  a 
dozen  wives  ought  to  be  disposed  of,  as  you  call  it. 

Mr.  A.  What  do  you  mean?  I  don't  understand 
you. 


84  ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES. 

Mr.  M.  Why,  isn't  this  Nebraska  Bill  the  same  man 
I've  heard  tell  of,  that  has  set  up  for  a  prophet  some- 
where, and  married  ever  so  many  wives  ? 

Mr.  A .  Oh,  no,  Mr.  Moderation ;  that's  quite  a  differ- 
ent man,  Brigham  Young,  who  lives  in  Utah. 

Mr.  M.     Then  who  is  Nebraska  Bill,  I'd  like  to  know. 

Mr.  A.  It  isn't  a  man  at  all.  It  is  a  law,  proposing  to 
annul  the  Missouri  Compromise. 

Mr.  M  Oh,  that's  it.  Well,  I  reckon  Daniel  Web- 
3ter  had  something  to  say  about  that.  He's  a  great  man, 
Daniel  is. 

Mr.  A.     He  was  a  great  man,  but  not  living  now^ 

Mr.M.    "What's  he  dead?    Why  when  did  that  happen? 

Mr.  A.     About  five  years  ago. 

Mr.  M.  Five  years  ago !  And  I  never  heard  of  it. 
I'll  have  to  tell  Polly  of  that,  for  she  thinks  I  know 
every  thing  that  happens.  Now  I  think  of  it,  neighbor 
Active,  where  is  your  brother  now  ? 

3fr.  A.  He's  in  Washington.  We  heard  from  him 
half  an  hour  ago.     He  arrived  early  this  morning. 

Mr.  M.  You  don't  pretend  to  say  that  a  letter  came 
from  Washington  in  half  an  hour? 

Mr.  A.     Of  course  not.     The  news  came  by  telegraph. 

Mr.  M.     By  telegraph  ? 

Mr.  A.  Yes ;  it  don't  take  over  a  minute  to  come  in 
that  way. 

Mr.  M.  How  you  talk!  Five  hundred  miles  in  a 
minute!  Well,  that  beats  the  Dutch.  I  must  tell  Polly 
of  that,  too. 

Mr.  A.  Neighbor  Moderation,  will  you  allow  me  to 
ask  you  a  plain  question  ? 

Mr.  M.  Certainly;  as  many  as  you  please,  and  I  will 
answer  them  if  I  can. 

Mr.  A.     Wei],  then,  do  you  take  a  newspaper? 

Mr.  M.     No,  I  do  not;  but  why  do  you  ask  that? 

Mr.  A.  Why,  I  thought  you  didn't.  I  should  think 
you  would  wish  to  do  so,  in  order  to  get  the  news. 

Mr.  M.  Oh,  as  to  that,  I  usually  get  the  news  as  quick 
as  most  folks.  I  hear  the  people  talk  about  it,  and  learn 
in  that  way. 

Mr.  A.  And  vet  you  hadn't  heard  of  the  European 
war. 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  85 

Mr.  M.     Well,  no ;  I  didn't  happen  to  hear  of  that. 

Mr.  A.     Nor  about  Louis  Napoleon? 

Mr.  M.     Why,  no. 

Mr.  A.  Nor  of  the  Nebraska  Bill,  and  the  death  of 
Diiniel  Webster? 

Mr.M.     No,  but 

Mr.  A.     Nor  of  the  telegraph  ? 

Mr.  M.  No,  surely.  Well,  that  beats  all.  Five  "nun 
drcd  miles  a  minute  !  Well,  I  have  all  the  news  now, 
without  having  to  pay  for  a  newspaper;  so  I  will  bid  you 
good  night,  and  hurry  home,  to  tell  Polly  the  news. 


DIALOGUE    X. 

THE  CAUSE  OF  WINDS. 


Sidney.  Come,  children,  the  weather  is  too  cold,  and 
the  wind  blows  too  hard,  for  you  to  play  in  the  open  air 
to-day ;  and,  if  you  will  come  near  me  and  listen,  I  will 
tell  you  something  about  winds. 

Henry.  Oh  do,  uncle  Sidney ;  we  shall  be  so  glad  to 
hear  it. 

Sidney.  Now  I  am  going  to  tell  you  about  the  wind, 
whicli  you  hear  roaring  without ;  and  you  may  ask  me 
questions  about  it,  when  you  do  not  clearly  understand, 
or  when  you  wish  to  know  more. 

George.  Thank  you,  uncle;  I  should  like  to  know 
what  wind  is. 

Sidney.     Wind  is  air  in  motion. 

George.     But  what  puts  the  air  in  motion  ? 

Sidney.  It  is  put  in  motion  by  heat.  Heat  causes  tue 
air  to  expand,  and  thus  it  becomes  lighter  than  the  cold 
air,  and  rises  up,  when  the  cold  air  rushes  in  to  fill  its 
place. 

Henry.     What  heats  the  air? 

Sidney.  The  rays  of  the  sun  heat  it.  They  do  not 
heat  it  by  passing  through  it,  but  by  contact  with  the 
earth.  This  heat  varies  in  temperature,  as  the  surface  of 
the  earth  is  more  or  less  directly  exposed  to  the  influ- 
ence of  the  e'un ;  hence  the  air  is  not  all  heated  alike. 

George.     1  think  I  understand  you,  uncle;    and  that 


36  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

must  be  the  reason  why  it  is  so  much  warmer  on  the  side 
of  a  hill  toward  the  sun  than  on  the  opposite  side. 

Sidney.  Well  done — you  are  right!  and  that  is  a 
good  illustration ! 

Jane.  I  did  not  think  the  air  could  be  made  to  grow 
larger,  or  expand,  as  you  call  it,  uncle. 

Sidney.  Do  you  know,  Jane,  .how  George  makes  his 
foot-balls  ? 

Jane.  Oh  yes ;  he  takes  a  bladder,  and  blows  into  it 
through  a  quill,  till  it  will  contain  no  more  air;  then  he 
ties  it  up  so  that  no  air  can  escape,  and  crowds  it  into  a 
leather  case,  which  he  laces  up  tight. 

Sidney.  Well,  when  he  had  blown  into  the  bladder 
but  a  little  while,  it  was  full  of  air ;  but  the  bladder  was 
still  soft,  so  he  continued  to  blow  into  it  until  the  air  bo- 
came  very  dense,  and  thus  made  it  hard. 

Mary.     Then  air  can  be  made  smaller,  too,  can  it  7 

Sidney.  Yes,  Mary  ;  air  can  be  compressed,  or  made 
smaller,  as  you  term  it,  as  well  as  expanded.  Kow  I 
will  tell  you  how  you  may  know  that  this  is  so.  Take  a 
bladder  that  is  not  quite  full  of  air,  and  be  sure  it  is 
tied  up  so  tight  that  no  more  air  can  get  in  or  out ;  then 
hold  it  near  the  fire,  and  it  will  soon  be  quite  full  and 
hard.     This  is  because  the  air  in  it  has  expanded. 

George.  Now  I  know  why  the  bladder  burst,  which  I 
blew  full  of  air,  and  held  to  the  fire  to  dry,  the  other 
day — it  was  because  the  heated  air  swelled  so  much  that 
the  bladder  was  not  strong  enough  to  hold  it. 

Sidney.  You  are  right,  George ;  and  I  am  glad  to  see 
you  so  thoughtful  and  ready  to  apply  the  knowledge  you 
derive  from  our  conversation  to  the  explanation  of  things 
you  before  thought  so  strange. 

Emma.  Will  the  air  in  the  bladder  remain  swelled  all 
the  time  ? 

Sidney.  No,  my  dear ;  if  you  put  it  in  a  cold  place, 
it  will  soon  become  as  small  as  it  was  before  it  was  heat- 
ed. Now  1  trust  you  all  understand  that  air  will  expand 
by  heat,  and  contract  by  cold. 

Mary.  Yes,  I  think  all  of  us  understand  that  now ; 
but  I  should  like  to  know  how  to  prove  that  the  heated 
air  rises,  since  we  can  not  see  it  go  up. 

Sidney.     You  know  that,  if  you  hold  your  hand  over 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  87 

a  burning  candle  or  lamp,  it  will  burn  you  when  your 
hand  is  many  inches  from  the  blaze ;  but  you  can 
hold  your  hand  very  near  the  side  of  the  flame  without 
feeling  the  heat.  It  is  because  hot  air  rises.  When  a 
fire  is  made  in  a  grate  or  fire-place,  it  heats  the  air 
around  it,  and  this  heated  air  rises  up  the  chimney,  and 
carries  the  smoke  along  with  it.  If  it  were  not  so,  chim- 
neys would  be  of  but  little  use  in  conducting  the  smoke 
from  our  rooms.  There  is  a  simple  experiment  whicli 
will  illustrate  that  the  cold  air  takes  the  place  of  warm 
and  light  air. 

George.  What  is  that,  uncle?  I  am  fond  of  experi- 
ments. 

Sidney.  It  is  this :  when  the  air  in  a  room  is  warmer 
than  the  air  outside,  by  opening  the  door  a  little,  so  as  to 
leave  only  a  small  crack,  and  holding  a  lighted  candle  at 
the  top,  the  flame  will  be  bent  outward.  This  will  show 
you  that  the  air  is  flowing  out  of  the  room.  Then,  by 
placing  the  candle  near  the  floor,  the  flame  will  be  bent 
toward  the  room,  thus  showing  that  a  current  of  air  is 
rushing  in  to  take  the  place  of  that  which  goes  out.  If 
the  room  is  very  warm,  you  can  easily  perceive,  from 
holding  the  candle  in  these  two  currents,  which  is  the 
warm  one  and  which  the  cold. 

Henry.  Now  I  think  I  know  why  the  wind  blew  from 
all  directions  toward  the  fire  when  Mr.  Carter's  house 
burned;  it  was  because  the  heated  air  ascended  so  fast 
that  the  cold  air  flowed  in  from  all  sides  to  fill  its  place. 

Sidney.  A  correct  conclusion,  Henry;  and  I  am 
pleased  that  you  understand  the  principles  of  wind  so 
well 


DIALOGUE    XI, 

ON  SLANDER. 


Mr.  Smith..     Natural — perfectly.     "  Birds  of  a  feath- 
er flock  together." 

Afr.  Jones.     What  did  you  observe,  sir  ? 
Mr.  Smith.     Merely  that  you,  sir,  being  an  intimate 

4 


38  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

friend  of  Mr.  Brown,  can  justify  acts  of  his  which 
would,  to  less  partial  minds,  appear  in  a  very  dubious 
light. 

Mr.  Jones,  Say  what  you  please,  sir.  Mr.  Brown  ia 
an  estimable  citizen,  and  enjoys,  in  a  high  degree,  the 
respect  and  consideration  of  the  community  in  which  he 
lives. 

Mr.  Smith.  I  know  of  nothing  to  the  contrary  ;  and 
shall  say  naught  against  him,  save  that  he  is  the  pink  of 
parsimony — as  the  villagers  have  it,  he  is  tight  as  a 
mackerel  barrel. 

Mr.  Jones.  Sir,  as  the  friend  of  Mr.  Brown,  I  take  it 
upon  me  to  defend  his  name  from  the  foul  aspersions  of 
calumny.     I  pronounce  your  assertion  a  libel. 

Mr.  Smith.  I  might,  perhaps,  mention  an  incident 
which  would  cause  you  to  change  your  opinion,  and  to 
shower  epithets  and  imprecations  upon  the  head  of  him 
you  now  so  warmly  defend. 

Mr.  Jones.  Impossible !  But  I  will  hear  what  slander 
has  to  say,  that  I  may  vindicate  the  fair  fame  of  my 
friend.     Proceed. 

Mr.  Smith.  As  you  request  it,  I  will.  Having  been 
delayed  by  business  one  night  to  a  late  hour — say  eleven 
or  twelve  o'clock — I  was  returning  home,  and  on  my 
route  passed  neighbor  Brown's  door.  I  had  not  gone  far, 
when  suddenly  there  broke  forth  the  most  piercing  and 
agonizing  screams  I  had  ever  heard.  The  sounds  struck 
me  with  terror,  and  for  a  moment  I  was  paralyzed.  The 
shrieks  continued,  and  became,  if  possible,  terrifying. 
Such  sounds  had  never  before  disturbed  the  quiet  of  our 
little  neighborhood.  What  foul  work  could  the  old  man 
be  doing?  Upon  what  helpless  being  was  he,  at  the 
dead  of  night,  inflicting  his  vengeance?  Was  it  the 
death-cry  of  some  wayworn  traveler,  who  had  been  de- 
coyed into  his  habitation  in  the  hope  of  shelter ;  or  the 
ecream  wrung  in  agony  from  some  unfortunate  neighbor, 
who  had  crossed  and  baffled  him  in  some  manner  in  his 
career  of  gain  ?  True,  the  old  man  has  never  had  the 
reputation  of  a  murderer ;  never  did  the  slightest  suspi- 
cion oi  blood  rest  on  him.  Avarice  was  all  that  had 
been  laid  to  his  charge.  But  what  will  that  same  demon 
avarice  cause  frail  humanity  to  do  for  gold?     It  never 


ENTKRTAINING   DIALOGUES.  89 

pleased  me  to  look  into  those  small,  gray,  restless  eyes  of 
his.     And 

Mr.  Jones.  You  alarm  me.  Did  you  ever  ascertain 
the  cause  ? 

Mr.  SmiOi.  Patience!  And  was  the  life-blood  of  a 
fellow-being  flowing  so  near,  and  I  an  idle  listener?  The 
very  thought  inspired  me  with  courage.  I  rushed  to  the 
house,  and  hurled  myself  against  the  barred  and  bolted 
oaken  door.  It  gave  way  with  a  crash,  and,  entering,  I 
found  myself  in  the  presence  of  your  friend.  There  he 
stood — scarcely  regarding  my  sudden  entry,  so  intent  was 
he  on  the  accomplishment  of  his  fell  purpose.  In  one 
hand  he  clutched  a  sharp-pointed,  rusty  file,  while  with 
the  long  and  bony  fingers  of  the  other  he  held,  with  a 
miser's  grasp,  his  victim,  whence  came  such  despairing, 
such  terrible  and  heart-rending  screams 

Mr.  Jones.     The  old  villain ! 

Mr.  Stnith.  A  flickering  taper  cast  its  sickly  rays  upon 
his  pale  features;  and  those  small,  gray  eyes  sparkled 
with  fiendish  glee,  as,  regardless  of  my  presence,  he  pro- 
ceeded with  his  work ! 

Jfr.  Jones.     But,  could  you  render  no  assistance? 

Mr.  Smith.     None,  whatever. 

Mr.  Jones.  And  did  the  old  fiend  accomplish  the  foul 
work? 

Mr.  Smith.  Fully.  It  was  not  his  first  essay  at  the 
business;  he  was  an  adept. 

Mr.  Jones.  Mercy !  And  he  is  still  at  large !  Are 
there  no  means  to  get  rid  of  such  a  neighbor  ?  We  are  not 
safe.  Are  there  no  laws  to  protect  the  innocent  ?  no  chains 
for  the  guilty?     But  who,  pray  tell  me,  was  the  victim  ? 

Mr.  Smith.     Are  you  prepared  for  the  worst? 

Mr.  Jones.     Entirely. 

Mr.  Smith.     I  fear  not. 

Mr.  Jones.     Be  assured,  my  dear  sir,  I  am. 

Mr.  Smith.     Can  you  keep  a  secret? 

Mr.  Jones.     Aye,  till  the  end  of  time,  if  need  be. 

Mr.  Smith.  Still,  there  is  so  much  deceit  and  treachery 
in  the  world,  you  must  pardon  me  if  I  doubt. 

Mr.  Jones.     I  pledge  my  word. 

Mr.  Smith.  AVell,  sir,  the  victim  was — I  yet  fear  to 
expose  your  friend. 


4:0  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Mr.  Jones.  My  friend  I  rather  say  the  knave )  the 
hypocrite!  aye,  if  it  must  out — the  murderer! 

Mr.  Smith  Be  calm,  I  entreat  you.  Excitement 
availeth  nothing.  True,  misplaced  affection  and  friend- 
ship, unworthily  bestowed,  may  well  make  the  heart 
sick.  But  we  should  seek  to  forget  the  sad  cause  of  our 
mind's  unrest. 

Mr.  Jones.  Yet  I  would  fain  know  all.  The  law 
would  require  of  you  your  knowledge  of  the  affair. 

Mr.  Smith.     Indeed ! 

Mr.  Jones.  Then  do  not,  I  pray  you,  keep  me  longer 
in  suspense. 

Mr.  Smith.  I  have  inadvertently  disclosed  too 
much.  But  I  will  yield  to  your  impatience.  Once 
more — are  you  prepared  for  the  worst? 

Mr.  Jones.     Yes,  yes! 

Mr.  Smith.  Then,  sir,  the  victim  was  a  FLINT,  and  the 
old  chap  was  endeavoring  to  SKIN  it  with  a  file.  Hence 
its  outcries.     Good  evening,  sir. 

Ha!  ha!  ha! 


DIALOGUE    XII. 

THE  AUCTION. 

Auctioneer,  Bystanders,  and  Bidders.     Scene. — A  Variety  Store. 

Auctioneer.  Gentlemen !  Here  is  a  great  variety  be- 
fore you ;  every  article  in  every  line,  and  all  of  the  best 
quality ;  warranted  to  please.  If  not,  bring  them  back 
and  exchange.  Who  bids  for  this  article?  First  rate 
suspenders — latest  style — never  wear  out.  Who  bids 
gentlemen  ?     Lasting  suspenders — never  wear  out. 

Is^  Bystander.     Out  where  ? 

Auctioneer.  Outside.  You  are  a  smart  youth,  though. 
W  here  did  you  have  your  bringing  up  ? 

1st  Bystander.     I  came  up  afoot. 

Auctioneer.  I  should  guess  so.  For  you  don't  look 
as  though  you  ever  rode^  or  ever  would.  Who  bids, 
gentlemen?     Come,  bid  something  ;  we  have  no  time  to 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  41 

talk;  wo  didn't  come  here  to  talk;  we  came  to  sell. 
Give  us  a  bid. 

1st  Bidder.     Twenty-five  cents. 

Aucti'oji-eer.  Twenty -five  cents;  twenty-five  cents; 
twenty-five!  One  dozen  pairs  of  suspenders  going  at 
twenty -five  cents. 

2d  Bidder.     Thirty -seven  and  a  half. 

AiLctioneer.  Thirty-seven  and  a  half  cents;  thirty- 
seven  and  a  half — thirty-seven  and  a  half — going  at 
thirty -seven  and  a  half  One  dozen  rich,  lasting  suspend- 
ers, going  at  thirty-seven  and  a  half  cents.  O,  gentle- 
men, go  on ;  don't  let  them  go  at  that  price ;  thirty-seven 
and  a  half  cents  for  a  dozen  pairs  of  real  India-rubber, 
lasting  suspenders ! 

2d  Bystander.     How  long  will  they  last  f 

Auctioneer.  Longer  than  you  will,  if  you  don't  get 
that  color  out  of  your  face.  Look  here,  young  man! 
you  had  better  cut  acquaintance  with  that  bottle  of  yours ! 
Thirty-seven  and  a  half  cents  for  a  dozen  pairs  of  sus- 
penders! Dog  cheap,  gentlemen;  dog  cheap.  Come, 
don't  let  them  go  at  that.  Thirty-seven  and  a  half — only 
thirty-seven  and  a  half.  Well,  to  be  sure,  this  is  the 
first  time  that  I  ever  sold  suspenders  at  that  rate. 

Sd  Bystander.  And  it  will  be  the  last,  I  guess,  if  they 
are  so  lasting. 

Auctioneer.  Ha,  ha!  Don't  you  buy  any;  you'll  get 
sicspended  without.  Smart  folks  always  rise  in  the  world, 
as  the  Irishman  said,  when  he  was  going  to  be  hung. 
Thirty-seven  and  a  half  cents  for  a  dozen  pairs  of  suspend- 
ers !  Thirty-seven  and  a  half  cents.  Is  this  all,  gentle- 
men?— this  all  that  you  are  going  to  bid? 

Sd  Bidder.     Fifty  cents. 

Auctioneer.  Ah !  there  is  a  man !  Well,  I  thought 
there  were  some  men  in  this  crowd ;  though  I  confess  you 
seem  to  be  very  modest  in  showing  it.  Fifty  cents — iifty 
cents  is  bid — fifty  cents ;  one  more  bid,  gentlemen ;  give 
us  one  more  bid;  fifty  cents — going — fifty  cents  for  a 
dozen  paiis  of  suspenders ;  going — going — gone!  {Down 
goes  the  hammer.)     Who  is  the  bidder  ? 

Sd  Bidder.  Cash.  {The  clerk  delivers  the  article,  and 
takes  tJie  money.) 

Auctioneer.  Cash — right.  Well,  there  is  one  man  in 
4* 


42  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUP:S. 

this  crowd,  and  some  money,  too.  I  began  to  think 
there  was  neither  one  nor  the  other.  Now,  gentlemen,  I 
will  put  up  a  watch — a  real  gold  watch — no  bogus  about 
it.  Gentlemen,  the  gold  of  which  this  watch  was  made 
came  directly  from  California — overland  mail  route ;  it's 
new  gold — a  new  watch — and  keeps  time  ivithout  vnnding! 
It  is  a  real  self-winder — a  curiosity,  I  tell  you ;  the  very 
last  Boston  notion — the  very  last.  Who  bids — who  bids, 
gentlemen  ?      Warranted  to  please,  or  return. 

4:th  Bystander.     Who  is  the  maker  ? 

A  uctioneer.  He  is  dead  and  gone.  Grentlemen,  he  was 
actually  so  smart  in  inventing  this  watch  that  it  killed 
him.  He  is  the  only  man,  that  I  ever  heard  of,  that  died 
of  smartness  ;  though  there  are  some  that  I  suspect  will. 
Who  bids  ?  A  first-rate,  patent,  self-winding  gold  watch ; 
it  never  stops  going. 

bth  Bystander.     Whilst  you  carry  it. 

Auctioneer.  Young  man,  you  had  better  go  and  speak 
for  your  coffin.  Didn't  I  tell  you  that  some  of  you  would 
die  of  smartness  ?  And  of  course  I  meant  you — if  you 
would  let  the  bottle  alone  I     Who  bids  ? 

4:th  BiMer.     Fifty  dollars. 

Auctioneer.  Fifty  dollars! — ^fifty  dollars  for  a  gold 
watch — a  self-winder!  0,  say  a  hundred,  and  done 
with  it. 

hth  Bidder.     One  hundred  dollars. 

Auctioneer.  One  hundred  dollars — one  hundred  dol- 
lars— one  hundred  dollars  is  already  bid.  Come,  gentle- 
men, don't  let  it  go  at  that ;  why,  I  tell  you,  upon  the 
word  of  a  gentleman,  that  that  isn't  more  than  half  what 
it  is  worth.  One  hundred  dollars  only  is  bid — one  hun- 
dred   

6/A  Bidder.     One  hundred  and  fifty. 

Auctioneer.  One  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  is  bid — one 
hundred  and  fifty;  gentlemen,  that  gold,  self-winding 
watch  is  richly  worth  three  hundred  dollars ;  but  it  has 
got  to  be  sold,  to  close  a  concern ;  so,  who  bids? 

^tli  Bidder.     Two  hundred. 

Auctioneer.  Two  hundred !  Ha,  ha,  gentlemen ;  well, 
Uere  are  two  men  here.  That  is  more  than  I  expected ; 
for  I  never  find  more  than  one  man  in  a  crowd  1 

6^.  Bystander.     Besides  yourself,  you  mean. 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  4:8 

Auctioneer.  I  don't  mean  you  I  You  Lad  better  go 
home,  and  grow  a  little,  or  get  a  pair  of  stilts. 

^iJi  Bystander.     Or  suspenders  r 

Auctioneer.  Ah,  yes !  you  are  right — for  they  would 
elevate  you  most ;  and  you  had  better  put  them  on  now, 
before  the  sheriff  does!  Who  bids'?  Two  hundred 
dollars  for  a  self-winding  gold  watch,  brand  new 

1th  Bystander.     Whose  brand  ? 

Auctioneer.  Mr.  Smarty,  you  had  better  go  to  North 
Carolina.     They  brand  people  there— 3/br  stealing. 

8th  Bystander.     Does  the  watch  keep  time? 

Auctioneer.  Yes;  just  as  you  do  your  money.  Two 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars — two  hundred  and  fijiyj  did 
you  say? 

7th  Bidder.     No,  sir ;  two  hundred  dollars. 

Auctioneer.  Two  hundred  dollars.  Going — going — 
gone  I     Who  is  the  bidder  ? 

1th  Bidder.     Cash.     {The  clerk  receives  the  money.) 

Auctiojieer.  Gentlemen,  the  auction  is  closed  till  to 
morrow  evening,  when  please  call  in  again.     (Exeunt.) 


DIALOGUE    XIII, 

THE  KNOW  NOTHING. 


Counsel.     Sheriff,  please  to  call  in  John  Wilkins. 

Sheriff.     Here  comes  Mr.  Wilkins  into  court. 

Counsel.  Mr.  Wilkins,  did  you  attend  the  sale  of  the 
property  of  Jonas  Dubberly  ? 

Wilkins.     I  think  I  did. 

Counsel.     Did  you  keep  the  minutes  of  that  sale  ? 

Wilkins.  Don't  know,  sir,  but  I  did.  Don't  recollect 
whether  I  kept  the  minutes,  or  the  sheriff,  or  nobody.  I 
think  it  was  one  of  us. 

Counsel.  Well,  sir,  will  you  tell  me  what  articles  were 
sold  on  that  occasion  ? 

Wilkins.  {Hesitating.)  Well,  sir,  I  can't  say.  I  re* 
membei  there  were  a  good  many  things  sold,  out  can't 
say  exactly  what. 

Counsel  Did  you  on  that  occasion  sell  a  threshing- 
machine  ? 


44  ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES. 

Wilkins.     Yes,  I  think  we  did. 

Counsel.  I  wisli  you  to  be  positive.  Are  you  sure 
of  it? 

Wilkins.  Can't  say  that  I  am  sure  of  it ;  and,  when  I 
come  to  think  of  it,  I  don't  know  as  we  did — think  we 
didn't. 

Counsel.  Will  you  swear,  then,  that  you  did  not  sell 
one? 

Wilkins.  No,  sir,  don't  think  I  would;  for  I  can't 
say  whether  we  did  or  didn't. 

Counsel.     Did  you  sell  a  horse-power? 

Wilkins.     Horse-power  ? 

Counsel.     Yes,  horse-power? 

Wilkins.  Horse-power!  Well,  it  seems  to  me  we 
did.  And  then,  it  seems  to  me  we  didn't.  I  don't  know 
now  as  I  can  recollect  whether  I  remember  there  was 
any  horse-power  there.  I  can't  say  whether  we  sold  it 
or  not.  But  I  don't  think  we  did.  Though  it  may  be, 
perhaps,  that  we  did,  after  all.  It's  some  time  ago,  and 
I  don't  like  to  say  certainly. 

Counsel.  Well,  perhaps  you  can  tell  me  this:  Did 
you  sell  a  fanning-mill  ? 

Wilkins.  Yes,  sir,  we  sold  a  fanning-mill.  I  guess  I 
am  sure  of  that. 

Counsel.  Well,  you  swear  to  that,  do  you  ? — that  one 
thing,  though  I  don't  see  it  on  the  list.  {Looking  at  a 
'paper.) 

Wilkins.  Why,  I  may  be  mistaken  about  it — perhaps 
I  am.  It  may  be  it  was  somebody  else's  fanning-mill  at 
some  other  time — not  sure. 

Counsel.  {Addressing  the  Judge)  I  should  like  to 
know,  may  it  please  the  court,  what  this  witness  does 
know,  and  what  he  is  sure  of. 

Wilkins.  {To  Counsel.)  Well,  sir,  I  know  one  thing, 
that  I'm  sure  of;  and  that  is,  that  on  that  sale  we  sold 
either  a  threshing-machine,  or  a  horse-power,  or  a  fan- 
ning-mill, or  one,  or  all,  or  neither  cf  them ;  but  I  don'l 
know  which. 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  45 

DIALOGUE    XIV. 

THE  THING  THAT'S  RIGHT. 

Landlord.  That  is  my  new  boarder,  coming  this  way. 
I  wonder  what  his  business  is  in  town.  At  home,  though, 
I  will  be  bound  he  is  a  major,  colonel,  deacon,  or  squire. 
1  will  try  to  find  out  his  business.  By  his  important 
airs,  he  thinks  himself  somebody. 

{Enter  General  PunJdn.) 

Landlord.     Good  morning,  sir.     A  fine  day. 

General.     Sir,  your  servant. 

Landlord.     Is  there  any  news  abroad  ? 

General.  Nothing  important,  I  believe.  But  I  have 
been  too  busily  engaged  to  look  for  news. 

Landlord.     Purchasing  goods,  perhaps  ? 

General.  No ;  I  had  a  point  to  carry  in  the  House ; 
and  when  I  do  a  thing  I  make  a  business  of  it. 

Landhrd.  Then  I  have  the  honor  of  a  member  of  the 
legislature  in  my  family  ? 

General.  Yes,  sir ;  I  represent  the  county  of  Bunkum ; 
elected  by  six  hundred  and  fifty-six  majority. 

Landbrd.  You  have  probably  had  warm  work  in  the 
House  to-day  ? 

General.  Yes,  pretty  warm ;  but  we  clean  beat  them 
in  the  argument. 

Landlord.     You  took  an  active  part  in  the  debate  then? 

General.  Not  exactly  ;  for  those  lawyers  talked  so 
fast,  I  could  not  get  a  word  in  edgeways.  However  I 
jogged  a  member  from  Blarney,  and  put  him  up  to  say- 
ing a  smart  thing  or  two. 

Landlord.     Are  you  fond  of  public  speaking? 

General.  Yes ;  I  always  make  a  speech  to  my  regi- 
ment every  muster-day,  for  you  must  know,  I  am  a  bit 
of  a  soldier  at  home ;  but  somehow  or  other,  whenever  J 
I  ise  to  speak  in  the  House,  I  feel  something  in  my  throat 
which  says,  "  General,  hold  your  tongue ;  "  and,  as  I  can 
Dot  speak  a  word,  I  take  the  advice. 

Landlord.     That  is  prudent  in  you. 


46  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

General.  Why,  you  see,  I  always  mean  to  speak  to 
the  pomt,  anil  while  I  am  condensing  my  ideas,  up  jumps 
somebody  and  gets  the  start  of  me. 

Landlord.  You  are  as  bad  as  the  lame  man  at  the 
pool  of  troubled  water;  but  you  will  get  used  to  it  in 
time. 

General.  Yes,  so  I  tell  my  wife.  Now,  says  I,  wile, 
when  I  go  to  the  legislature,  I  mean  to  do  the  thing  that's 
right.  And  when  I  was  getting  ready,  my  wife  says 
she,  "Gineral,"  (for  my  wife  always  calls  me  Gineral,) 
"Gineral,"  says  she,  "you  must  have  a  ruffle  put  on 
your  shirt,  as  squire  Smart  has."  Now  I  don't  care 
nothing  about  such  things  myself,  but  my  wife  says  she, 
"  you  must  do  as  other  folks  do."  Well,  says  I,  I  mean 
to  do  the  thing  that's  right — and  so  you  see,  she  ruffled 
two  of  the  best  linen  ones — I  always  wear  cotton  at  home, 
and  a  body  must  have  a  change,  you  know. 

Landlord.     Your  wife  knows  what  gentility  is. 

General.  Yes,  as  our  preacher  says:  "General,"  says 
he,  "your  wife's  a  woman."  And  so  she  is,  though  I 
say  it,  that  should  not  say  it. 

Landlord.     Why  did  you  not  bring  her  down  with  you  ? 

General.  She  asked  me ;  but  says  I,  my  dear,  a  good 
soldier  leaves  his  wife  at  home,  when  he  goes  on  duty, 
and  I  always  wish  to  do  the  thing  that's  right,  you  know. 

Landlord.  Did  you  take  part  in  the  debate  on  the  pe- 
nal code? 

General.  No;  you  see  I  don't  know  nothing  about 
those  things,  and  as  I  had  not  slept  any  the  night  before, 
I  took  a  nap  in  the  lobby. 

Landlord.  But  you  voted  when  the  question  was 
taken  ? 

General.     0  yes,  for  my  name  was  called. 

Landlord.  How  could  you  determine  on  which  side 
to  vote? 

General.  Why,  you  see,  I  watched  the  leading  mem- 
ber of  our  party,  and  voted  as  he  did,  for  he  generally 
does  the  thing  that's  right. 

Landlord.  You  said  you  had  a  measure  to  carry 
through  the  legislature.     Is  it  of  importance  ? 

General.  Yes.  You  must  know  there's  a  brook  be- 
tween our  county  and  the  next,  and  we  wanted  to  steal 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  47 

a  march  on  them,  and  get  an  act  passed  to  prevent  the 
other  side  from  fishing  in  it ;  so  you  see  they  chose  me 
to  come  and  look  to  it.  Not  that  I  wanted  to  come ;  but 
having  a  little  notion  or  two  to  buy  for  my  store,  says  I 
to  my  wife,  I  wish  to  do  the  thing  that's  right,  and  I'll 

go. 

Landlord.     Was  this  important  question  settled  to-day  ? 

General.  Why  not  exactly  settled^  as  a  body  may  say, 
for  some  one  moved  that  the  question  be  postponed  till 
the  thirty-first  instant ;  and,  having  a  little  business  to  do 
down  town,  I  seconded  the  motion,  you  see,  and  it  was 
carried ;  and  I  am  glad  of  it,  for  I  wish  to  do  the  thing 
that's  right,  and  the  other  party  can  not  say  I  hurried 
them. 

Landlord.  So  I  should  think;  for  if  they  wait  till 
February  has  thirty-one  days,  they  will  have  no  reason 
to  complain. 

General.  How  is  that?  How — how — ^how's  that? 
Have  they  outgeneraled  me,  after  all  ? 

"Thirty  days  hath  September, 
April,  June,  and  November  " — 

I  learned  that  when  I  was  a  boy.  Faith,  they  have 
gained  the  day ! 

Landlord.  Yes,  or  the  month  has.  What  a  kettle  of 
fish  you  have  cooked  for  your  constituents. 

General.  Why,  between  you  and  me,  they  had  as 
good  right  to  fish  there  as  we  had,  and  no  doubt  Provi- 
dence overruled  the  business;  for,  as  our  minister  says, 
He  always  does  the  thing  that's  right. 


DIALOGUE   XV. 

A  LAW  CASE. 
GOODY   GRIM   V.    LAPSTONE. 


Judge.  {Standing.)  What  a  profound  study  is  THE 
LAW  I  and  how  difficult  to  fathom !  Well,  let  us  .consid- 
er the  law,  for  our  laws  are  very  considerable,  both  in 
bulk  and  numbers,  according  as  the  statutes  declare; 


48  ENTERTAINIIJG  DIALOGUKS. 

considerandi^  considerando^  considerandum,  and  are  not  to 
be  meddled  with  bj  those  who  don't  understand  them. 

Law  always  expresses  itself  with  true  grammatical  pre- 
cision, never  confounding  moods,  cases,  or  genders,  ex- 
cept, indeed,  when  a  woman  happens  accidentally  to  be 
slain,  there  a  verdict  is  always  brought  in  manslaughter. 
The  essence  of  the  law  is  altercation,  for  the  law  can  al- 
tercate, fulminate,  deprecate,  irritate,  and  go  on  at  any 
rate.  "  Your  son  follows  the  law,  I  think,  Sir  Thomas?  '^ 
**  Yes,  madam ;  but  I  am  afraid  he  will  never  overtake 
it :  a  man  following  the  law  is  like  two  boys  running 
round  a  table ;  he  follows  the  law,  and  the  law  follows 
him.  However,  if  you  take  away  the  whereofs,  where- 
ases, wherefores,  and  notwithstandings,  the  whole  mys- 
tery vanishes :  it  is  then  plain  and  simple."  Now  the 
quintessence  of  the  law  has,  according  to  its  name,  five 
parts.  The  first  is  the  beginning,  or  mcipiendum ;  the 
second,  the  uncertainty,  or  duhitandum  ;  the  third,  delay, 
or  puzzleendum ;  fourthly,  replication  without  endum  ; 
and,  fifthly,  monstrum  et  hoverendum :  all  which  is  clearly 
exemplified  in  the  following  case — Goody  Grim  against 
Lapstone.  This  trial  is  as  follows: — Goody  Grim  inhab- 
its an  almshouse,  No.  2  ;  Will  Lapstone,  a  superannuated 
cobbler,  inhabits  No.  8 ;  and  a  certain  Jew  peddler,  who 
happened  to  pass  through  the  town  where  those  alms- 
houses are  situated,  could  only  think  of  No.  1.  Goody 
Grim  was  in  the  act  of  killing  one  of  her  own  proper 
pigs,  but  the  animal,  disliking  the  ceremony,  burst  from 
her  hold,  ran  through  the  semicircular  legs  of  the  afore- 
said Jew,  knocked  him  in  the  mud,  ran  back  to  Will 
Lapstone's,  the  cobbler,  upset  a  quart  bottle  full  of  gin, 
belonging  to  the  said  Lapstone,  and  took  refuge  in  the 
cobbler's  state-bed. 

The  parties  being,  of  course,  in  the  most  opulent  cir- 
cumstances, consulted  counsel  learned  in  the  law.  The 
result  was,  that  Goody  Grim  was  determined  to  bring  an 
action  against  Lapstone,  for  the  loss  of  her  pig  with  a 
curly  tail:  and  Lapstone  to  bring  an  action  against 
Goody  Grim,  for  the  loss  of  a  quart  bottle  full  of  Hollands 
gin ;  and  Mordecai  to  bring  an  action  against  them  both, 
for  the  loss  of  a  tee-totum,  that  fell  out  of  his  pocket  in 
the  rencounter.     They  all  delivered  their  briefs  to  counsel, 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  49 

before  it  was  considered  they  were  all  parties  and  no 
witnesses.  But  Goody  Grim,  like  a  wise  old  lady  as  she 
is,  now  changed  her  oattery,  and  is  determin(;d  to  bring 
an  action  against  Lapstone,  and  bind  over  Mordecai  as  an 
evidence. 

The  indictment  sets  forth  {reads from  paper)  "that  he, 
Lapstone,  not  having  the  fear  of  the  assizes  before  ]iis 
eyes,  but  being  moved  by  pig,  and  instigated  by  pruin- 
sence,  did,  on  the  first  day  of  April,  a  day  sacred  in  the 
annals  of  the  law,  steal,  pocket,  hide,  and  crib  divers, 
that  is  to  say,  five  hundred  hogs,  sows,  boars,  pigs,  and 

i)orkers,  with  curly  tails,  and  did  secrete  the  said  five 
lundred  hogs,  sows,  boars,  pigs,  and  porkers,  with  curJy 
tails,  in  said  Lapstone's  bed,  against  the  peace  of  our 
Lord  the  King,  his  crown  and  dignity." 

Mordecai  will  be  examined  by  Counselor  Puzzle. 
(Tlie  Judge  seats  himself.) 

Puzzle.     Well,  sir,  what  are  you  ? 

Mordecai.  I  sells  old  clo's,  and  sealing-wax,  and 
puckles. 

Puzzle.  I  did  not  ask  you  what  you  sold :  I  ask  you 
what  you  are  ? 

Mordecai.     I  am  about  five  and  forty. 

Puzzle.  I  did  not  ask  your  age  :  I  ask  you  what  you 
are  ? 

Mordecai.     I  am  a  Jew. 

Puzzle.  Why  couldn't  you  tell  me  that  at  first  ?  Well, 
then,  if  you  are  a  Jew,  tell  me  what  you  know  of  this 
affair. 

Mordecai.     As  I  vas  a  valking  along 

Puzzle.  Man,  I  didn't  want  to  know  where  you  were 
walking. 

Mordecai.     Yel,  as  I  vas  a  valking  along 

Puzzle.  So  you  will  walk  along,  in  spite  of  all  that 
can  be  said. 

Mordecai.  Pless  ma  heart,  you  frighten  me  out  of  my 
vits — as  I  vas  valking  along,  I  seed  de  unclean  animal 
Jioming  toward  me,  and  so  says  L-Ohl  Father  A bra- 
liam,  says  I 

Puzzle.     Father  Abraham  is  no  evidence. 

Mordecai.  You  must  let  me  tell  my  story  my  own 
vay,  or  I  can  not  tell  ii  at  all.     As  I  vas  valking  along, 

5 


50  ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES. 

I  seed  tlie  unclean  animal  coming  toward  me.  Oh! 
Father  Abraham,  said  I,  here  comes  the  unclean  animal 
toward  me,  and  he  runn'd  between  my  legs,  and  upset 
me  in  te  mut. 

Puzzle.  Now,  do  you  mean  to  say,  upon  your  oath, 
that  that  little  animal  had  the  power  to  upset  you  in  the 
mud? 

Mordecai,  I  vill  take  my  oath  dat  he  upshet  me  in  te 
mut. 

Puzzle.     And  pray,  sir,  on  what  side  did  you  fall  ? 

Mordecai.     On  te  mutty  side. 

Puzzle.  I  mean,  on  which  of  your  own  sides  did  you 
fall? 

Mordecai.     I  fell  on  my  left  side. 

Puzzle.     Now,  on  your  oath,  was  it  your  left  side  ? 

Mordecai.     I  vill  take  my  oath  it  vas  my  left  side. 

Puzzle.  And  pray,  what  did  you  do  when  you  fell 
down? 

Mordecai.     I  got  up  again  as  fast  as  I  could. 

Puzzle.  Perhaps  you  can  tell  me  whether  the  pig  had 
a  curly  tail  ? 

Mordecai.  I  vill  take  ma  oath  his  tail  was  so  curly  as 
my  peerd. 

Puzzle.  And  pray,  where  was  you  going  when  this 
happened  ? 

Mordecai.  I  vas  going  to  de  sign  of  de  Cock  and 
Pottle. 

Puzzle.  Now,  on  your  oath,  what  had  a  cock  to  do 
with  a  bottle. 

Mordecai.  I  don't  know ;  only  it  vas  the  sign  of  de 
house.  And  all  more  vat  I  know  vas,  dat  I  lose  an  ivory 
tee-totum  out  of  ma  pocket. 

Puzzle.  Oh,  you  lost  a  tee-totum,  did  you  ?  I  thought 
we  should  bring  you  to  something  at  last.  My  Lord,  I 
beg  leave  to  take  an  exception  to  this  man's  evidence  I 
he  does  not  come  into  court  with  clean  hands. 

Mordecai.  How  te  devil  should  I,  when  I  have  been 
polishing  ma  goods  all  morning. 

Puzzle.  Now,  my  Lord,  your  Lordship  is  aware  that 
tee-totum  is  derived  from  the  Latin  terms  of  te  and  tutum^ 
which  means,  "  Keep  yourself  safe."  And  this  man,  but 
for  my  sagacity,  observation,  and  so  forth,  would  have 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  61 

kept  himself  safe ;  but  now  he  has,  as  the  learned  Lord 
Verulam  expresses  it,  "let  the  cat  out  of  the  hag." 

Mordecai.  I  vill  take  ma  oath  "I  had  no  cat  in  my 
bag." 

Fuzzle.  My  Lord,  by  his  own  confession  he  was  about 
to  vend  a  tee-totum.  Now,  my  Lord,  and  gentlemen  of 
the  jury,  it  is  my  dut}^  to  point  out  to  you  that  a  tee-to- 
tum is  an  unlawful  machine,  made  of  ivory,  with  letters 
Erinted  upon  it,  for  the  purpose  of  gambling.  Now  your 
lOrdship  knows  the  act  commonly  known  by  the  name 
of  "Little  go  Act,"  expressly  forbids  all  games  of  chance 
whatever,  whether  put,  whist,  marbles,  swabs,  tee-totum, 
churck-farthing,  dumps,  or  what  not.  And,  therefore,  I 
do  contend  that  the  man's  evidence  is  contra  bonos  mores^ 
and  he  is  consequently  non  compos  testimonce. 

Judge.     Counselor  Botherem  will  now  proceed. 

Botherem.  My  Lord,  and  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  my 
learned  friend  Puzzle  has,  in  a  most  facetious  manner, 
endeavored  to  cast  a  slur  on  the  highly  honorable  evi- 
dence of  the  Jew  merchant.  And  I  do  contend  that  he 
who  buys  and  sells  is  hona-fide  inducted  into  all  the  mys- 
teries of  merchandise;  ergo,  he  who  merchandises  is,  to 
all  intents  and  purposes,  a  merchant.  My  learned  friend, 
in  the  twistings  and  turnings  of  his  argument  in  hand- 
ling the  tee-totum,  can  only  be  called  obiter  dictum ;  he  is 
playing,  my  Lord,  a  losing  game.  Gentlemen,  he  has 
told  you  the  origin,  use,  and  abuse,  of  the  tee-totum ; 
but,  gentlemen,  he  has  forgot  to  tell  you  what  that  great 
luminary  of  the  law,  the  late  learned  Coke,  has  said  on 
the  subject,  in  a  case  exactly  similar  to  this,  in  the  234th 
folio  volume  of  the  Abridgement  of  the  Statutes,  page 
1349,  where  he  thus  lays  down  the  law  in  the  case  of 
Hazard  verstcs  Blacklegs :  "  Gamblendum  consistet,  enact- 
um  gamblendi,  sed  non  evendum  macheni  jplacmdiy  My 
Lord,  I  beg  leave  to  say  that,  if  I  prove  my  client  was  in 
the  act  of  vending,  and  not  playing,  with  the  said  instru- 
ment, the  tee-totum,  I  humbly  presume  that  all  my 
learned  friend  has  said  will  come  to  the  ground. 

Judge.  Certainly,  brother  Botherem,  there's  no  doubt 
the  learned  Sergeant  is  incorrect.  The  law  does  not  put 
a  man  extralegium  for  merely  spinning  a  tee-totum. 

Botherem.     My  Lord,  one  oi  the  witnesses  has  owned 


52  ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES. 

that  the  pig  had  a  curly  tail.  Now,  my  Lord,  I  presume 
if  I  prove  the  pig  had  a  straight  tail,  I  consider  the  ob- 
jection must  be  fatal. 

Judge.  Certainly;  order  the  pig  into  court.  {The pig 
being  produced^  upon  examination^  is  found  to  have  a  straight 
tail) 

In  summing  up  the  evidence,  gentlemen  of  the  jury, 
it  is  wholly  unnecessary  to  recapitulate;  for  the  removal 
of  this  objection  removes  all  ground  of  action.  And 
notwithstanding  the  ancient  statute,  which  says  Serium 
"pigum  et  boreum  pigum^  et  vendi  curium  tailum^  there  is  an 
irrefragable  proof,  by  ocular  demonstration,  that  Goody 
Grim's  grunter  had  a  straight  tail,  and  therefore  the  pris- 
oner must  be  acquitted.  And  really,  gentlemen,  if  the 
time  of  the  court  is  to  be  taken  up  with  these  frivolous 
actions,  the  designs  of  justice  will  be  entirely  frustrated; 
and  the  attorney  who  recommends  this  action  should  be 
punished,  not  in  the  ordinary  way,  but  with  the  utmost 
rigor  and  severity  of  the  law. 


DIALOGUE  XVI. 

THE  FOLLY  OF  DUELING. 


Mr,  Fenton.  How  now,  Nero!  why  are  you  loading 
that  pistol  ?     No  mischief,  I  hope  ? 

Nero.  O  no,  Masser  Fenton.  I  only  going  to  fight  de 
duel,  as  dey  call  em,  with  Tom. 

Mr.  Fenton.  Fight  a  duel  with  Tom !  What  has  he 
done  to  you  ? 

Nero.  He  call  me  neger^  neger^  neger^  once,  twice,  three 
time,  and  I  no  bear  him,  Masser  Fenton. 

Mr.  Fenton.     But  are  you  not  a  negro,  Nero  ? 

Nero.  Yes,  Masser;  but  den  who  wants  to  be  told 
of  what  one  knows  already? 

Mr.  Fenton.  You  would  not  kill  a  man,  however,  for 
telling  so  simple  a  truth  as  that. 

Nero.  But  den  de  manner^  Masser  Fenton,  de  manner; 
him  every  thing.  Tom  mean  more  him  say,  when  he  call 
Nero  names. 

Mr.  Fenton.     It  is  hard  to  judge  of  what  a  man  means 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  53 

but  if  Tom  has  insulted  you,  I  have  no  doubt  he  is  sorry 
for  it. 

Nero.  Him  say  he  sorry,  very  sorry;  but  what  him 
signify  when  he  honor  gone?  No,  Masser;  when  de 
white  man  be  insulted,  what  him  do?  he  fight  de  duel. 
Den  why  de  poor  African  no  fight  de  duel  too  ? 

Mr.  FenUm.  But  do  you  know  it  is  against  the  law  to 
fight  duels. 

Nero.  De  white  men  fight,  and  de  law  no  trouble  him- 
self about  dem.  Why  den  he  no  let  de  African  have  de 
same  privilege?  No,  Masser  Fenton,  "Sauce  for  de 
goose,  sauce  for  de  gander." 

Mr.  Fenton.  The  white  men  contrive  to  evade  the  law, 
Nero,  so  that  it  can  not  punish  them. 

Nero.  Ah,  Masser  Fenton,  de  law  no  fair  den;  him 
let  go  de  rogue,  who  outwit  him,  and  take  hold  of  de 
poor  African,  who  no  know  what  him  be. 

Mr.  Fenton.  It  is  a  pity  that  those  who  know  what  is 
right  do  not  set  a  better  example.  But,  tell  me,  were 
not  you  and  Tom  always  good  friends  before? 

Nero.  O  yes,  Masser  Fenton ;  we  always  good  friend, 
kine  friend,  since  we  boy  so  high,  and  dat  make  me  ten 
time  mad  to  be  call  neger,  neger.  0  him  too  much  for 
human  nature  to  bear ! 

Mr.  Fenton.  But  how  do  you  expect  to  help  the  mat 
ter  by  fighting  with  Tom  ? 

Nero.  When  I  kill  Tom,  he  no  blackguard  me  more, 
dat  sartain.  And  den  nobody  else  call  Nero  name,  I 
know. 

Mr.  Fenton.  True,  Nero.  But  suppose  Tom  should 
kill  youf    Tom,  you  know,  never  misses  his  mark. 

Nero.     How  ?  Masser  Fenton ;    what  dat  you  say  ? 

Mr.  Fenton.  Suppose  Tom  should  kill  you^  instead  of 
your  killing  him ;  what  would  people  think  then?  You 
know  you  are  as  liable  to  be  killed  as  he  is. 

Nero.  0  no,  Masser  Fenton;  de  right  always  kill  de 
w^rong,  when  he  fight  de  duel. 

Mr.  Fenton.  O  no,  Nero;  the  chance,  at  best,  is  but 
equal ;  and,  as  bad  men  are  more  used  to  such  business,  I 
have  no  doubt  that  the  instances  in  which  the  injured 
party  is  slain  outnumber  those  where  the  aggressor  h,'is 
suffered. 


54  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Nero.  Nero  never  tink  of  dat  before.  {To  himself.) 
Tom  good  marksman ;  I  no  good.  Nero  no  kill  Tom, 
Tom  kill  Nero,  dat  sartain.  Poor  Nero  dead,  de  world 
say,  dat  good  for  him ;  and  Nero  no  here  to  contradict 
him.  Poor  Nero  wife  no  home,  no  bread,  no  noting  now 
Nero  gone,  {Loud.)  What  Nero  do,  Masser  Fenton? 
How  him  save  him  honor  ? 

Mr.  Fenton.  The  only  honorable  course,  Nero,  is  to 
forgive  your  friend,  if  he  has  wronged  you,  and  let  your 
future  good  conduct  show  that  you  did  not  deserve  the 
WTong. 

Nero.  But  what  de  world  tink,  Masser  Fenton  ?  He 
call  Nero  coward,  and  say  he  no  dare  fight  Tom.  Nero 
no  coward,  Masser  Fenton. 

Mr.  Fenton.  You  need  not  be  ashamed  of  not  daring 
to  murder  your  friend.  But  it  is  not  your  courage  which 
is  called  in  question.  It  is  a  plain  case  of  morality. 
The  success  of  a  a  duel  must  still  leave  it  undecided, 
while  it  adds  an  awful  crime  and  a  tremendous  accounta- 
bility to  the  injury  you  have  already  sustained. 

Nero.  True,  Masser  Fenton,  but  de  world  no  make  de 
proper  distinctions.     De  world  no  know  Nero  honest. 

Mr.  Fenton.  Nor  does  the  world  know  that  you  are 
not  honest.     But  what  do  you  mean  by  the  world,  Nero? 

Nero.     Why,  all  de  gentlemen  of  honor  ^  Masser  Fenton. 

Mr.  Fenton.  You  mean  all  the  unprincipled  men  who 
happen  to  hear  of  this  affair.  Their  number  must  be 
limited,  and  they  are  just  such  as  you  should  care  noth- 
ing about. 

Nero.     How  I  Masser  Fenton.     Dis  all  new  to  Nero. 

Mr.  Fenton.  The  number  of  people  who  approve  of 
duels,  compared  with  those  who  consider  them  deliberate 
murder,  is  very  small,  and  amongst  the  enemies  of  duel- 
ing are  always  found  the  wise,  humane,  and  virtuous. 
Would  you  not  wish  to  have  these  on  your  side  ? 

Nero.     0  yes,  Masser  Fenton. 

Mr.  Fenton.  Well,  then,  think  no  more  of  dueling; 
for  the  duelist  not  only  outrages  the  laws  of  his  country 
aTid  humanity,  but  he  incurs  the  censure  of  good  men, 
and  the  vengeance  of  that  God  who  has  said,  "  THOU 

SHALT   NOT   KILL." 

Nero.      O,  Masser  Fenton,  take  de   pistol,  fore  Nere 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  65 

shoot  himself.  Let  de  world  call  Nero  neger,  neger,  ne- 
ger ;  what  Nero  care  ?  de  name  not  half  so  bad  as  mur 
derer,  and  Nero  take  care  he  no  deserve  either. 

Mr.  Fenton.  Your  resolution  is  a  good  one ;  and 
happy  would  it  be  for  all  the  gentlemen  of  honor,  as  you 
call  them,  if  they  would  make  the  laws  of  God.  and  tho 
dictates  of  common  sense,  a  part  of  their  code. 


DIALOGUE    XVII. 

THE  CANDIDATE  FOR  CONGRESS 


Mr.  Markman.  (WaVdng  alone  in  his  counting-room^ 
This  is  really  quite  an  unexpected  event — to  be  nomin- 
ated for  Congress.  How  surprised  the  old  folks  at  home 
will  be!  Who  would  have  thought  that  I,  the  poor 
counting-house  clerk,  would  one  day  be  sent  to  Congress. 
No  doubt,  my  wealth  and  standing  as  a  merchant  have 
induced  the  party  to  select  me ;  for  I  have  never  been 
much  engaged  in  political  affairs,  and  am  very  far  from 
being  a  demagogue.  My  friends,  however,  urge  me  to 
accept  the  nomination,  saying  that  our  party  will  fail  if  I 
do  not.  Well,  if  I  am  elected,  I  will  do  the  best  in  my 
power :  but  there  is  the  difficulty.  Suppose  I  am  defeated. 
What  if  I  am,  though  ?  it  is  no  disgrace.  I  will,  how- 
ever, use  every  honorable  means  not  to  be  defeated. 

{EnUr  Mr.  Puff.) 

One  of  the  committee,  I  suppose.  {Aside)  I  am  happy 
to  see  you,  sir.     Pray  be  seated. 

Mr.  Puff.  {Speaking  rapidly)  Thank  you,  but  can't 
stay — in  a  great  hurry,  you  know.  I  am  sent  by  the 
committee,  to  announce  your  nomination  as  our  candidate 
for  Congress.  You  have  heard  of  it,  no  doubt,  and  arc 
ready  to  join  us. 

Mr.  Markman.  I  feel  highly  honored  by  the  choice  of 
our  noble  party,  but  have  really  had  no  time  to  reflect 
upon 

Mr.  Puff.  0,  you  must  accept — your  friends  expect  it 
Our  party  will  be  ruined,  if  you  refuse. 


56  ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES. 

Mr.  Marhman.  That  is  a  very  poor  reason  for  assum- 
ing such  a  great  responsibility ;  but  on  the  whole  I  have 
concluded  to  accept  the  nomination,  and  do  the  best  in 
my  power. 

Mr.  Puff.  I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  it,  sir;  allow  me 
to  congratulate  you  on  this  event.  {They  shalce 
hands.) 

Mr.  Marhman.  Thank  you;  but  we  have  not  yet 
gained  our  object.     We  may  lose  our  election. 

Mr.  Puff.  No,  indeed,  we  must  not  lose  it — we  shall 
not  lose  it ;  every  wire  must  be  pulled.  That  is  my  ob- 
ject in  calling  upon  you  this  evening.  I  am  to  make  a 
great  speech  in  your  mvor  to-morrow  night,  at  the  Hall ; 
and  I  wish  to  ascertain  some  facts  in  relation  to  your  pri- 
vate history,  that  I  may  rouse  up  the  people  in  your 
behalf. 

Mr.  Marhman.  {Laughing.)  Ha,  ha  1  Upon  my  word, 
Mr.  Puff,  I  think  the  wisest  way  will  be  to  say  nothing 
about  me ;  for  very  little  can  be  said  in  praise  of  a  quiet 
merchant  like  me,  except,  indeed,  that  I  have  always 
paid  my  debts. 

Mr.  Puff.  Oh  !  that  wouldn't  be  a  circumstance.  We 
must  have  something  to  shout  about,  or  we  shall  lose  the 
election.     Were  you  ever  a  fireman  ? 

Mr.  Marhman.     Never  in  my  life. 

Mr.  Puff.  Did  you  ever  save  the  life  of  some  poor 
emigrant's  child,  by  jumping  into  the  water,  or,  in  other 
words,  the  briny  deep  ? 

Mr.  Marhman.     Never ;  for  I  never  learned  to  swim. 

Mr.  Puff.  Did  you  never  save  any  body's  life,  in  any 
manner  ? 

Mr.  Marhman.  Not  to  my  knowledge ;  unless  an  oc- 
currence last  night  be  so  called;  but  it  is  not  worth 
mentioning. 

Mr.  Puff.  {Eagerly)  Let  us  hear  it,  by  all  means 
{Takes  out  a  memorandura  hook  and  pencil.) 

Mr.  Marhman.  I  was  riding  home  from  my  office  last 
night,  through  the  darkness  and  rain,  when  the  cariiage 
suddenly  stopped,  and  the  coachman  told  me  that  a 
drunken  man  had  fallen  in  the  gutter,  directly  across  the 
road.  I  ordered  him  to  lift  the  man  up,  and  call  a  police- 
man to  take  care  of  him.     Had  we  left  him  there,  lie 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  67 

might  have  drowned  ;  but  xnj  person  would  have  done 
the  same  thing. 

Mr.  Puff.  Ne\  er  mind  that,  sir.  It  was  done  by  your 
orders,  and  is  a  great  credit  to  you.  {Writes,)  Friend 
«>f  the  poor;  protects  the  unfortunate;  raises  the  poor 
inebriate  from  the  lowest  depths  of — of 

J//'.  Markman.     Of  the  gutter. 

}fr.  Puff.  Of  his  degradation.  That  will  make  an 
i^.xcitement.  But  is  there  nothing  warlike  about  you? 
JVrhaps  you  were  engaged  in  our  glorious  struggle  foi* 
independence. 

Mr.  Markman.  How  could  that  be,  as  I  was  not  born 
till  long  after  that  war? 

Mr.  Puff.  Ah  !  true — I  forgot.  That's  very  unlucky. 
I  should  like  to  make  a  revolutionary  hero  of  you.  But, 
perhaps  your  father  was  in  that  war? 

Mr.  Markman.  No ;  our  family  did  not  come  from 
England  until  the  war  closed. 

Mr.  Puff.  What !  were  you  British  ?  How  unfortu- 
nate !     That  will  be  against  you. 

Mr.  Markman.  Our  family,  like  your  own  and  many 
others,  came  from  England ;  but  how  can  that  make  any 
difference?  We  always  liked  the  Americans,  and  sided 
with  them — which  was  one  reason  why  we  came  here. 

Mr.  Puff.  That  makes  no  difference.  If  j^our  father 
came  from  England,  it  will  prejudice  the  public  some- 
what against  you. 

Mr.  Markman.  Then  the  public  is  very  unreason- 
able. 

Mr.  Puff.  Yes ;  but  it  is  very  powerful,  and  we  musi 
respect  its  opinion.  Can  you  not  think  of  some  relative 
who  shared  in  the  toil  and  danger  of  the  Revolution  ? 

Mr.  Markman.  My  grandfather's  cousin  held  tlie  rank 
of  sergeant  among  tlie  militia. 

Mr.  Puff.     That  will  do.    ( Writes.)    Was  he  wounded? 

Mr.  Markman.  I  heard  my  grandfather  sa}^  that  his 
right  heel  was  shattered,  by  foolishly  putting  out  his  foot 
to  stop  a  cannon-ball,  which  he  supposed  was  nearly 
spent. 

Mr.  Puff.  Good,  good  !  Of  course  there  is  but  one 
way  of  speaking  of  that  circumstance:  it  is  a  remarkable 
historical   fact.     {Writes.)     Your   ancestry   poured   out 


58  ENTERTAIN  rNG  DIALOGUES. 

their  blood  like  water  upon  tlie  ensanguined  field  of — 
of — what  battle  was  it  ? 

Mr.  Markman.     I  really  don't  recollect. 

Mr.  Puff.  Well,  never  mind — upon  the  ensanguined 
battle-  field  will  do.  Did  you  not  engage  in  the  last  war  ? 
You  surely  must  have  been  drafted  to  serve. 

Mr.  Markman.     I  was ;  but  I  hired  a  substitute. 

Mr.  Piff.  All  the  same  as  though  you  went  yourself. 
Was  your  substitute  in  any  engagement  ? 

Mr.  Markman.  I  had  the  curiosity  to  make  some  in- 
quiries about  him,  and  found  that  he  deserted  the  first 
time  he  heard  the  report  of  the  enemy's  musket,  and 

Mr.  Puff.  Never  mind  about  telling  any  further — he 
was  in  actual  service;  it  will  make  a  beautiful  point  in 
my  speech.  I  wish  he  had  taken  a  standard ;  it  would 
produce  a  most  thrilling  effect  to  wave  it  over  the  heads 
of  the  people  in  the  Hall. 

Mr.  Markman.     I  really  wish  he  had  taken  one. 

Mr.  Puff.  We  have  enough  in  the  military  line.  1 
shall  make  a  splendid  speech.  Good  evening,  sir ;  we 
shall  soon  be  able  to  assure  you  of  complete  success. 
{They  shake  hands) 

Mr.  Markman.  I  can  not  see  what  you  have  learned 
about  me  to-night  to  insure  success.  Pray  do  not  exag- 
gerate my  virtues. 

Mr.  Puff.     Oh  !  no  fear  of  that.     {Goes  out) 

Mr.  Markman.  What  nonsense !  I  really  dread  the 
scene  of  confusion  and  intrigue  that  I  must  pass  through ; 
but  I  will  preserve  m.j  own  integrity  through  every 
thing. 


DIALOGUE    XVIII 

ON  KNOWLEDGE. 


Mr.  Sanguine.  What  an  excellent  thing  knowledge 
is!  AYhy,.my  boys  know  more  at  six  and  seven  years 
old  than  I  did  at  twelve.  They  can  read  all  sorts  of 
books,  and  talk  on  all  sorts  of  subjects.  The  world  is  a 
great  deal  wiser  than  it  used  to  be.  Books  on  all  sub- 
jects are  numerous  and  cheap,  and  every  body  may  know 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  69 

something  of  eveiy  thing  now.  Do  you  not  really  think 
knowledge  is  an  excellent  thing,  neighbor  Thoughtful? 

Mr.  Thoughtful.  Why,  that  depends  on  circumstances, 
neighbor.  It  may  be  an  excellent  thing,  and  it  may  not. 
It  may  prove  a  blessing,  or  it  may  prove  a  curse.  It  de- 
pends entirely  on  the  use  that  is  made  of  it.  Knowledge 
IS  power — but  it  may  be  power  for  evil  as  well  as  for 
good. 

Mr.  Sanguine.  That  is  what  I  can't  understand.  ] 
should  like  to  know  how  power  can  be  a  bad  thing.  Can 
you  tell  me,  neighbor  Thoughtful  ? 

Mr.  Thoughtful.  I  will  try  to  do  so.  Listen  to  me. 
You  have  a  noble  horse,  have  you  not? 

Mr.  Sanguine.     A  better  one  was  never  owned. 

Mr.  Thoughtful.  So  I  thought.  Well,  when  managed 
by  bit  and  rein,  he  is  very  useful  in  drawing  loads,  or  in 
carrying  his  master;  but,  without  bit  or  bridle,  he  would 
dash  the  carriage  in  pieces,  and  endanger  life.  And  yet 
he  is  a  powerful  horse,  and  very  kind  and  useful,  under 
proper  management. 

Mr.  Sanguine.     Yes,  yes  I     I  see ;  I  see. 

Mr.  Thoughtful.  Yonder  is  a  noble  mill-pond.  A 
strong  dam  keeps  the  water  in  its  place — allowing  only 
a  sufficient  quantity  to  move  out  to  run  the  machinery 
of  the  factory  below.  It  is  very  powerful  and  useful. 
But  once  tear  away  the  dam,  and  the  same  pond  will  do 
much  harm. 

Mr.  Sanguine.     I  see ;  I  see,  neighbor  Thoughtful. 

Mr.  Thoughtful.  If  a  ship  is  rightly  managed,  the 
more  sail  she  carries  the  sooner  she  will  reach  her  port ; 
but,  if  steered  in  the  wrong  direction,  the  faster  she  sails 
the  further  she  will  go  from  the  desired  haven. 

Mr.  Sanguine.     0,  yes !    I  see,  I  sec  clearly. 

Mr.  Thoughtful.  Well,  then,  if  you  see  these  thing? 
clearly,  I  hope  you  can  also  see  that  knowledge  is  a  good 
thing  only  when  rightly  directed  and  applied.  With 
God's  favor  and  aid,  knowledge  will  prove  a  blessing  and 
a  power  for  good ;  but,  otherwise,  it  may  prove  a  power 
for  evil — a  curse,  and  not  a  blessing. 

Mr.  Sajiguine.  I  see ;  I  see.  You  are  right ;  you  are 
right. 


60  ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES. 

DIALOGUE    XIX. 

PEDIGREE 

Mary.  Aunt  Betty,  why  are  you  always  mending  that 
old  picture  ? 

Aunt  Betty,  Old  picture!  miss;  and  pray,  wbo  told 
you  to  call  it  an  old  picture  ? 

Mary,  Pray,  aunt,  is  it  not  an  old  picture?  I  am 
sure  it  looks  ragged  enough. 

Aunt  B.  And  pray,  neice,  is  it  not  ten  times  more 
valuable  on  that  account?  I  wish  I  could  ever  make 
you  entertain  a  proper  respect  for  your  family. 

Mary.  Do  I  not  respect  the  few  that  remain  of  them, 
and  yourself  among  the  rest?  But  what  has  that  old — 
what  shall  I  call  it,  to  do  with  our  family? 

Aunt  B.  It  is  our  family  coat-of-arms ;  the  only  docu- 
ment which  remains  to  establish  the  nobility  and  purity 
of  our  blood. 

Mary.  What  is  purity  of  blood,  aunt?  I  am  sure  I 
have  heard  Mrs.  Pimpleton  say  your  complexion  was 
almost  orange,  and  she  believed  it  arose  from  some  im- 
purity  of  the  blood. 

Aunt  B.  Tut,  tut !  you  hussy.  I  am  sure  my  com- 
plexion will  not  suffer  by  a  comparison  with  any  of  the 
rimpleton  race.  But  that  is  neither  here  nor  there: 
it  matters  not  what  the  complexion  is,  or  the  present 
state  of  the  blood,  provided  the  source  is  pure.  Do 
people  drink  the  less  water  because  it  filtrates  through 
clay? 

Mary.     But  what  is  pure  and  noble  blood,  aunt  ? 

Aunt  B.  Blood,  my  dear,  which  has  proceeded  from 
some  great  and  celebrated  man,  through  the  veins  of 
many  generations,  without  any  mixture  with  vulgar 
blood. 

Mary.     Then  whom  do  we  proceed  from,  aunt  Bettj^  ? 

Aunt  B.  From  Sir  Gregory  Mac  Grincell,  who  lived  in 
the  time  of  Elizabeth,  and  left  sons  a  dozen,  from  the 
youngest  of  whom,  James  Mac  Grincell,  gentleman,  we 
are  descended. 

Mary.     What  does  a  gentleman  mean,  aunt  ? 

Aunt  B.     It  means  one  who  has  too  high  a  sense,  of 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOCiUES.  61 

his  ancestry  to  engage  in  any  of  what  are  vulgarly  cj-lled 
the  useful  employments. 

Mary.  It  must  mean  a  lazy  man,  then,  I  should  think. 
Was  he  not  extremely  poor,  aunt? 

Aunt  B.  Poor!  What  is  poverty  in  the  scale  of 
nobility  ?  It  is  the  glory  of  our  house  that  they  have 
always  preferred  honorable  poverty  to  disgraceful  in- 
dustry. 

Afary.  Why,  aunt,  every  body  does  not  think  as  yr^u 
do.  I  heard  the  parson's  wife  say  you  would  be  a  better 
Christian,  and  serve  your  Maker  more  fliithfully,  by 
doing  something  profitable,  than  by  spending  your  time 
in  idleness,  and  depending  upon  the  church  for  support. 

Aunt  B.  She  had  better  mind  her  own  business,  and 
not  slander  her  parishioners.  Mighty  well,  indeed,  if  the 
descendant  of  Sir  Gregory  Mac  Grincell  is  to  be  taught 
her  duty  to  her  ancestors  by  the  daughter  of  a  plough- 
man, and  the  wife  of  a  country  parson. 

Mary.     I  am  sure  she  is  a  very  good  woman,  and  my 
mother  considers  her  a  pattern  of  humility. 
■    Aunt  B.     Did  she  display  her  humility  in  walking  be- 
fore me  at  the  deacon's  funeral  ?     Answer  me  that. 

Mary.  She  had  not  the  arrangement  of  the  procession, 
aunt. 

Aunt  B.  She  ought  to  have  known  her  place,  how- 
ever. I  shall  take  care  how  I  go  to  any  more  vulgar 
funerals,  to  be  insulted,  I  promise  you. 

Mary.  I  can  not  see  what  should  make  us  better  than 
our  neighbors ;  for  my  mother  once  told  me  that  your 
grandfather  was  only  an  hostler. 

Aunt  B.  Your  mother  takes  a  great  deal  of  pains  to 
expose  the  dark  spots  in  our  escutcheon.  But  did  she 
ever  tell  you  that,  when  my  grandfather  was  engaged  in 
that  profession,  it  was  customary  for  gentlemen  to  be 
their  own  grooms?     No;  I'll  warrant  not. 

Mary.  Then  there  is  no  disgrace  in  any  employment, 
if  it  be  only  fashionable  ? 

Aunt  B.  None  at  all,  my  dear;  for  Count  Rumf^rd 
was  a  cook,  and  Sir  Isaac  Newton  a  spectacle  maker. 

Mary.  But  of  what  use  is  our  noble  blood  in  this 
country,  aunt,  where  merit  alono  is  respected  ? 

Aunt  B.     Merit,  indeed!  and  what  have  ?<;c  to  do  with 

6 


62  ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES. 

merit?  It  is  well  enougTi  for  those  of  v^ulgar  origin  to 
possess  merit;  the  well-born  do  not  need  it. 

Mary.  How  did  our  great  ancestor  obtain  bis  title, 
then? 

Aunt  B.  0,  to  be  sure,  the  founder  of  a  family  must 
do  something  to  deserve  his  title. 

Mary.     What  did  Sir  Gregory  do  ? 

Aunt  B  Do !  why,  he  painted  so  flattering  a  likeness 
of  Queen  Elizabeth  that  she  knighted  him  immediately. 

Mary.     Then  he  was  a  painter  by  trade  ? 

Aunt  B.  By  trade!  The  minx  will  drive  me  dis- 
tracted. Be  it  known  to  you,  miss,  we  have  never  had  a 
tradesman  in  our  family,  and  I  trust  I  never  shall  live  to 
see  it  so  degraded.  Painting  was  merely  Sir  Gregory's 
profession. 

Mary.  I  hope  I  shall  learn,  in  time,  to  make  the 
proper  distinctions,  but  I  fear  it  will  be  difficult ;  for  my 
mother  always  taught  me  to  allow  no  other  distinction 
than  that  of  personal  worth ;  and  I  must  confess  I  do  not 
see  the  propriety  of  any  other. 

Aunt  B.  No ;  and  I.  presume  you  never  will,  while 
your  mother  entertains  her  present  low  ideas  of  meritori- 
ous industry^  as  she  is  pleased  to  call  the  occupation  of 
those  who  are  mean  enough  to  work  for  their  living.  I 
did  hope  to  make  you  sensible  of  the  dignity  of  your 
descent;  but  I  now  find  I  must  look  elsewhere  for  an 
heir  to  my  invaluable  legacy,  this  precious,  precious 
coat-of-arms. 


DIALOGUE    XX. 

THE  PETULANT  MAN. 

Mr.  Grim,  Michael,  and  Cousin  Mary. 

Cousin  Mary.  More  breezes?  What  terrible  thing 
has  happened  now,  Cousin  Grim  ?     What's  the  matter  ? 

Qririi.  Matter  enough,  I  should  think !  I  sent  this 
stupid  fellow  to  bring  me  a  pair  of  boots  from  the  closet ; 
and  he  has  brought  me  two  rights,  instead  of  a  right  and 
left. 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  6S 

Ccmsin.  What  a  serious  calamity !  But,  perhaps  he 
thought  it  was  but  right  to  leave  the  left. 

Grim.  None  of  your  jokes,  if  you  please!  This  is 
nothing  to  laugh  at. 

Coiisin.  So  it  would  seem,  from  the  expression  on 
your  face;  rather  something  to  storm  at,  roar  at,  and  fall 
into  a  frenzy  about. 

Michael.  That's  right,  miss;  give  him  a  piece  of  your 
mind !  He's  the  crossest  little  man  I  have  met  with  in 
the  new  country.  You  might  scrape  old  Ireland  with  a 
fine-tooth  comb,  and  not  find  such  another. 

Orim.  How  dare  you,  you  rascal  1 — how  dare  you 
talk  to  me  in  that  style?  I'll  discharge  you,  this  very 
day! 

Michael.  I'm  thinking  of  discharging  you^  if  you 
don't  take  better  care  of  that  sweet  temper  of  yours. 

Grim.     Leave  the  room,  sir  ! 

Michael.  That  I  will — in  search  of  better  company, 
saving  the  lady's  presence.     {Exit.) 

Grim.  There,  cousin  I  there  is  a  specimen  of  my  prov- 
ocations I     Can  you  wonder  at  my  losing  my  temper  ? 

Cousin.  Cousin  Grim,  that  would  be  the  most  fortu- 
nate thing  that  could  befall  you. 

Grim.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Cousin.  I  mean,  if  you  could  only  lose  that  temper  of 
yours,  it  would  be  a  blessed  thing  for  you ;  though  I 
should  pity  the  poor  fellow  who  found  it. 

Grim.  You  are  growing  satirical,  in  your  old  age, 
cousin  Mary. 

Cousin.  Cousin  Grim,  hear  the  plain  truth :  your  ill- 
temper  makes  you  a  nuisance  to  yourself  and  every  body 
about  you. 

Grim.  .Really,  Miss  Mary  Somerville,  you  are  getting 
to  be  complimentary ! 

Cousin.  No;  I  am  getting  to  be  candid.  I  have 
passed  a  week  in  your  house,  on  your  invitation.  I  leave 
you  this  aflernoon ;  but,  before  I  go,  I  mean  to  speak  my 
mind. 

Grim.  It  seems  to  me  that  you  have  spoken  it  rather 
freely  already. 

Cousin.  What  was  there,  in  the  circumstance  of  poor 
Michael's  bringing  the  wrong  boots,  to  justify  your  flying 


64  E^TTBRTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

into  a  rage,  and  bellowing  as  if   your  life  had   been 
threatened  ? 

Grim.  That  fellow  is  perpetually  making  just  such 
provoking  blunders ! 

Cousin.  And  do  you  never  make  provoking  blun- 
ders ?  Didn't  you  send  me  five  pounds  of  Hyson  tea, 
when  I  wrote  for  Souchong?  Didn't  you  send  a  carriage 
for  ine  to  the  cars  half  an  hour  too  late,  so  that  I  had  to 
hire  one  myself,  after  great  trouble?  And  did  I  roar  at 
you,  when  we  met,  because  you  had  done  these  things? 

Grim.  On  the  contrary,  this  is  the  first  time  you  have 
alluded  to  them.  I  am  sorry  they  should  have  happened. 
But,  surely,  you  should  make  a  distinction  between  any 
such  little  oversight  of  mine  and  the  stupidity  of  a  scrv 
ant,  hired  to  attend  to  your  orders. 

Cousin.  I  do  not  admit  that  there  should  be  a  dis- 
tinction. You  are  both  human :  only,  as  you  have  had 
the  better  education,  and  the  greater  advantages,  stupid- 
ity or  neglect  on  your  part  is  much  the  more  culpable. 

Grim.     Thank  you !     Go  on. 

Cousin.  I  mean  to ;  so  don't  be  impatient.  If  an  un- 
cooked potato,  or  a  burnt  mutton-chop,  happens  to  fall  to 
your  lot  at  the  dinner-table,  what  a  tempest  follows! 
One  would  think  that  you  had  been  wronged,  insulted, 
trampled  on,  driven  to  despair.  Your  face  is  like  a 
thunder-cloud,  all  the  rest  of  the  meal.  Your  poor  wife 
endeavors  to  hide  her  tears.  Your  children  feel  timid 
and  miserable.  Your  guest  feels  as  if  she  would  like  to 
see  you  held  under  the  nose  of  the  pump,  and  thoroughly 
ducked. 

Grim.  The  carriage  is  waiting  for  you.  Miss  Somer- 
ville,  and  the  driver  has  put  on  your  baggage. 

Cousin.  I  have  hired  that  carriage  by  the  hour,  and 
so  am  in  no  hurry.  Your  excuse  for  your  irritability 
will  be,  I  suppose,  that  it  is  constitutional,  and  not  to  be 
controlled.  A  selfish,  paltry,  miserable  excuse!  I  have 
turned  down  a  leaf  in  Dr.  Johnson's  Works,  and  will 
read  what  he  says  in  regard  to  tempers  like  youi"s. 

Grim.  You  are  always  quoting  Dr.  Johnson  !  Cousin, 
I  can  not  endure  it !     Dr.  Johnson  is  a  bore  1 

Cousin.  0,  yes !  to  evil-doers — but  to  ncne  else. 
Hear  him: — "There  is  in  the  world  a  class  of  moital? 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  65 

known,  and  contentedly  known,  by  the  appellation  of 
passionate  men;  who  imagine  themselves  entitled,  by 
this  distinction,  to  be  provoked  on  every  slight  occasion, 
and  to  vent  their  rage  in  vehement  and  fierce  vocifera- 
tions, in  furious  menaces,  and  licentious  reproaches." 

Orim.     That  will  do. 

Cousin.  Men  of  this  kind,  he  tells  us,  are  often  pitied 
rather  than  censured,  and  are  not  treated  with  the  severity 
which  their  neglect  of  the  ease  of  all  about  them  might 
justly  provoke.  But  he  adds:  "It  is  surely  not  to  be 
observed  without  indignation,  that  men  may  be  found  of 
minds  mean  enough  to  be  satisfied  with  this  treatment ; 
wretches  who  are  proud  to  obtain  the  privilege  of  mad- 
men, and " 

Grim.     I  will  hear  no  more !     Have  done ! 

Cousin.     So  the  shaft  went  home !     I  am  not  sorry. 

Grim.  No  one  but  a  meddlesome  old  maid  would 
think  of  insulting  a  man  in  his  own  house  I 

Cousin.  So,  when  at  a  loss  for  a  vindication,  you  re- 
proach me  with  being  an  old  maid !  Cousin,  it  does  not 
distress  me  either  to  be  an  old  maid,  or  to  be  called  one. 
I  must,  however,  remark  that  the  manhood  that  can 
charge  against  a  woman  her  single  state,  either  as  a  mat- 
ter of  ridicule  or  reproach,  is  not  quite  up  to  my 
standard. 

Grim.  Cousin  Mary,  I  ask  your  pardon  !  But  am  I 
indeed  the  petulant,  disagreeable  fellow  you  would  make 
me  out  ? 

Cousin.  My  dear  Caspar,  you  are  generous  enough  in 
large  things ;  but,  oh !  consider  that  trifles  make  up  a 
good  portion  of  the  sum  of  life ;  and  so  "  a  small  unkind- 
ness  is  a  great  offense."  Why  not  be  cheerful,  sunny, 
genial,  in  all  things?  Why  not  look  on  the  bright  side? 
why  not  present  an  unruffled  front  to  petty  annoyances? 
why  not  labor — aye,  labor — to  have  those  around  you 
liappy  and  contented,  by  reflecting  from  yourself  such  a 
frame  of  mind  upon  them  ? 

Life  is  short,  at  the  best;  why  not  make  it  cheerful? 
Do  you  know  that  longevity  is  promoted  by  a  tianquil, 
happy  habit  of  thought  and  temper?  Do  you  know 
that  cheerfulness,  like  mercy,  is  twice  blessed — blessing 
"him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes?"     Do  you  know 

6* 


6&  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

that  good  manners,  as  well  as  good  sense,  demand  that 
we  should  look  at  objects  on  their  bright  side?  Do  you 
know  that  it  is  contemptible  selfishness  in  you  to  shed 
gloom  and  sorrow  over  a  whole  family  by  your  morose- 
ness  and  ill-humor? 

Grim,  Cousin  Mary,  the  patience  with  which  I  liave 
listened  to  your  cutting  remarks  will  prove  to  you,  I 
hope,  that,  notwithstanding  my  angry  retorts,  I  am 
afraid  there  is  much  troith  in  what  you  have  said  of  me. 
I  have  a  favor  to  ask.  Send  away  your  carriage ;  stay 
a  week  longer — a  month — a  year — if  you  will.  Hold 
the  lash  over  this  ugly  temper  of  mine — and  I  give  you 
my  word  that  I  will  set  about  the  cure  of  it  in  earnest. 

Cousin.  You  should  have  begun  earlier — in  youth, 
when  the  temper  is  pliable,  and  strong  impressions  can 
work  great  changes.  But  we  will  not  despair.  I  will 
tarry  with  you  a  while,  just  to  see  if  you  are  serious  in 
your  wish  for  a  reformation,  and  to  help  you  bring  it 
about. 

Grim.  Thank  you.  We  hear  of  reformed  drunkards, 
and  reformed  thieves ;  and  why  may  not  a  petulant 
temper  be  reformed,  by  a  system  of  total  abstinence  from 
all  harsh,  unkind  moods  and  expressions?  Come,  we 
will  try. 


DIALOGUE    XXI. 

THE  DEBATE. 


Question. — "Are  civilized  nations  justified  in  seizing  and  occupying 
countries  inhabited  by  savages  ?  " 

The  Chairman,  John  Bubbleton,  Deacon  Herring,  nbn.  Ja51es 
Willful,  Jffon.  Samuel  Soundsense,  Solomon  Thrashem,  Sergeant 
O'Trigger,  Richard  Slowthink,  Benjamin  Blowhard. 

Chairman.  Gentlemen,  I  highly  appreciate  the  honor 
conferred  on  me  as  chairman  of  this  assembly.  I  will 
not,  however,  weary  you,  or  waste  your  time  by  attempt- 
ing a  speech,  but  proceed  at  once  to  the  business  before 
us.     Will  the  first  speaker  commence  the  debate  ? 

Bubbleton.     Mr.  Chairman. 


EXTERTAIMNG  DIALOGUES.  67 

Ohairmaii.     Mr.  Bubbleton,  gentlemen. 

Bvbhlcion.  The  law  of  civilized  nations  sanctions  the 
claim  to  a  country  by  the  right  of  discovery ;  and  this 
law,  sir,  is  founded  on  a  basis  of  sound  political  wisdom. 
When  the  enlightened  Christian  nations  of  the  world 
adopted  this  law,  they  were  not  influenced  by  personal 
intenjst,  or  by  the  wish  for  an  accession  of  territory. 
They  had  in  view  the  prosperity,  happiness,  and  moral 
elevation  of  the  poor,  the  ignorant,  and  the  degraded 
savage.  This  flourishing  land,  which  now  stands  first 
among  nations,  was,  when  in  the  Indian's  possession,  a 
howling  wilderness,  a  dreary  waste,  the  abode  of  wild 
beasts  and  serpents.  The  refinement  and  ingenuity  of 
the  white  man  have  wrought  this  change ;  and,  sir,  would 
any  gentleman  here  have  had  civilized  nations  stand  idly 
by,  and  see  what  may  be,  and  has  been,  converted  into 
the  fairest  land  on  God's  earth  lying  useless  in  the  hands 
of  savages,  without  the  probability  of  ever  having  its 
condition,  or  the  condition  of  its  owners,  bettered  until 
it  changed  masters? 

{Several  cry^  "  Mr.  Chairman.") 

Chairman.     Deacon  Ilerring,  gentlemen. 

Herring.  Sir,  my  views  of  this  question  coincide  with 
those  of  the  gentleman  who  has  preceded  me.  I  am  a 
man  of  peace;  and,  as  such,  I  can  not  but  condemn  the 
cruelties  which,  on  various  occasions,  have  been  perpe- 
trated upon  the  poor,  defenseless  Indian.  But,  sir,  not- 
withstanding the  Indians  sometimes  experienced  harsh 
treatment  from  the  ha:ids  of  unprincipled  adventurers,  I 
think  the  amount  of  good  done  in  wresting  their  lands 
from  them  more  than  overbalances  the  evil. 

The  great  Creator  of  the  universe  never  intended  that 
there  should  be  a  barren  spot  on  this  fair  and  fertile  earth. 
We  are  told  that  man  was  created  in  Asia.  The  human 
race  extended  over  the  whole  of  the  eastern  continent. 
The  wisdom  of  Providence,  amid  tempest  and  storm,  di- 
rected the  frail  barks  of  the  aborigines  to  the  shores  of 
North  America.  The  inhabitants  of  the  eastern  conti- 
nent advanced  slowly  but  steadily  in  knowledge.  Chris- 
tianity was  diffused  among  them,  and  the  arts  and  sciences 
progressed  more  ra])idly  than  ever,  and  a  spirit  of  mari- 
time enterprise  took  possession  ot  them. 


68  ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES. 

Sir,  tbere  is  a  divinity  that  shapes  our  ends.  The  light 
of  Christianity  is  rapidly  diffusing  itself  among  the  un- 
lettered savages  of  the  forest.  Surely,  sir,  the  overruling 
hand  of  Providence  is  seen  in  these  things. 

Ghairjnan.     Honorable  James  Willful,  gentlemen. 

Willful.  Sir,  I  am  really  surprised  at  the  part  which 
my  two  friends  have  taken  in  this  debate.  Here  have  I 
been,  the  Honorable  James  Willful,  listening  to  the  rig- 
ma7-oles  of  Mr.  Bubblington  and 

Buhhleton.  Mr.  Chairman,  I  beg  leave  to  say  that  my 
name  is  Bubbleton. 

Willful.  0 !  O !  Ah !  yes.  Beg  pardon,  sir.  Well, 
Mr.  Chairman,  as  I  was  saying,  here  have  I  been  listen- 
ing to  the  rigmaroles  of  Mr.  Puddleton  there,  and  Parson 
Herrings 

Herring.  Herrings,  sir!  Herrings!  No,  sir;  but  Her- 
ring. I  am  not  one  of  the  finny  tribe,  sir.  I  don't  be- 
long to  the  red  herring  aristocracy,  sir.  I  am  decidedly 
against  them.  But,  sir,  my  name  is  Herring — Zebediah 
Herring.  Not  Parson,  but  Deacon  Zebediah  Herring,  at 
your  service,  sir. 

Willful.  Well,  Mr.  Chairman,  here  have  I  been  list- 
ening to  the  rigmaroles  of  Mr.  Puzzleton  there,  and 
"Deacon  Herring,  till  I'm  a'most 

Thra^shem.  Mr.  Chairman,  s'pose  the  speaker  stop  his 
■seigmaseroling,  and  git  in  order. 

Willful.     Ain't  I  in  order,  you  rascal? 

Chairman.     {Raps)     No  personalities,  Mr.  Willful. 

Willful.  What  d'ye  see  out  of  order  about  me? 
Didn't  Prudence  fix  my  coat  last  night,  and  didn't  my 
daughter  Sally  darn  my  stockings  this  morning? 

Chairman.  He  means,  sir,  that  he  wishes  you  to  speak 
to  the  subject  we  are  discussing. 

Willful.  Well,  if  he  can  do  any  better,  I  should  like 
to  see  him  try ,  that's  all. 

Chairman.  Honorable  Samuel  Soundsense,  gentle- 
men. 

Soundsense.  Sir,  in  an  enlightened  and  patriotic 
assembly,  such  as  this,  I  am  surprised  at  the  views  which 
gentlemen  take  of  the  subject.  They  deny  that  the  In- 
dians have  a  right  to  claim  the  land  they  own,  and  assert 
that  every  foreign  robber,  who  may  be  lucky  enough  to 


ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES.  09 

fall  in  witli  it,  can  claim  it,  and  have  that  claim  allowed 
by  similar  robbers.  Sir,  is  this  just?  Is  it  honorable? 
Is  it  manlj  ?  Is  it  becoming  the  dignity  of  enlightened 
Christian  citizens? 

But,  sir,  religion — the  propagation  of  Christianity — is 
argued  as  the  plea  for  this  high -handed  theft.  Under  the 
guise  of  peace  and  charity,  ambition,  cruelty,  avarice, 
murder,  crime  of  QYQry  hue,  and  all  the  baser  passions  of 
man,  are  allowed  free  scope.  The  innocent,  simple- 
hearted  sons  of  the  forest  were  the  victims.  The  heart- 
less outrages  of  Cortez,  the  demoniac  tortures  of  Pizarro, 
all  proceeded  from  an  excess  of  zeal  in  promulgating  the 
Christian  religion.  And  these  are  specimens  of  the  kind 
ness  of  the  civilized  nations  who  had  the  interest  of  the 
natives  at  heart. 

{Cries  of  "Mr.  Chairman.") 

Chairman.     Mr.  Solomon  Thrashem,  gentlemen. 

Thrashem.  Mr.  Chairman,  sir  I  I  don't  keer  nothin' 
about  what  the  gentleman  hopes.  I  guess  I  have  a  voice 
here  as  well  as  any  other  man ;  and,  although  you 
moughtn't  keer  much  fur  my  'pinion  o'  things,  you  must 
have  it,  whether  or  no.  You  see  I  was  raised  up  in  ole 
Varmount,  'mong  the  Inj  uns  and  painters.  ( Cries  of  order^ 
order.)  Gentlemen,  you  ought  to  know  more  manners 
than  to  interrupt  me  Well,  Mr.  Chairman,  as  I  was  say- 
ing, I  was  raised  among  the  Injuns  and  painters  of  Var- 
mount, and  I  liked  the  Injuns  as  well  as  I  did  the  wild- 
cats any  day,  and  no  more;  so  you  see  'tis  only  natural 
for  me  to  want  to  give  my  vardict  on  'em.  Well,  then, 
here  it  is,  squire,  "  plump  and  plain,"  as  "  Lawyer  Jones 
said  to  Peggy  Bilkinson."  The  Injuns  hain't  got  no 
right  to  a  fut  of  the  sile,  if  a  decent  white  man  wants  it. 
That's  my  'pinion,  Mr.  Chairman,  and  I'll  allers  stand 
to  it. 

Chairman.     Sergeant  Timothy  O'Trigger,  gentlemen. 

W Trigger.  Sir,  being  myself  a  sojer,  and  happening 
to  come  along  this  way,  I  thought  I  would  drop  in,  and 
see  how  you  were  getting  alcng.  Well,  cap'n,  I  have 
been  listening  all  the  time  since  I  came  in,  cap'n,  and  at 
the  same  time,  cap'n,  I  was  thinking  of  the  great  and 
glorious — ahem  !  ahem  1  hem !  Mr.  Chairman,  cap'n,  I'd 
been  listening  since  I  came  in,  cap'n,  until  my  blood  got 


70  ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES. 

SO  riled  up  with  patriotism,  cap'n,  I  thought  I  could  not 
stand  it  any  longer.  So  up  I  get,  and  says  what  you've 
just  heard  me  say.     Now  I've  done,  I'll  sit  down,  cap'n. 

{Cries  of  "Mr.  Chairman.") 

Chairman.     Mr.  Kichard  Slowthink,  gentlemen. 

Slowthinh.  Sir,  this  is  a  very — very  momentous  ques^ 
tion ;  ah — really,  sir,  it  is.  Perhaps,  sir,  it  is  one  of  the 
most  serious  questions  I — I — ever  heard  on,  and  I  have 
no  doubt  that  "it  is.  I  see  that  some  of  you  gentlemen 
say  one  thing,  and  some  another.  But  I — I — really — 
have  forgotten  the  question,  Mr.  President — ah — Mr. 
Chairman ;  else — else — I  might  be  tempted  to  speak  on 
it,  sir ;  and — sir — although  I  am  no — no — Demosthenes, 
nor  no — no — no — there,  hang  it!  I  forget  who  I  was 
going  to  say.  Well,  sir,  I  think — that — although — I  am 
no  Demosthenes,  sir,  m}^  eloquence  would  produce — some 
effect,  sir. 

Chairman.     Mr.  Benjamin  Blowhard,  gentlemen. 

Blowhard.  Let  me  ask  of  you,  sir,  what  good  havt 
savage  nations  ever  done  to  mankind,  or  what  have  they 
ever  contributed  to  science?  Nothing,  Mr.  Chairman. 
The  savage  knows  nothing  of  refinement.  Besides,  Mr. 
Chairman,  there  are  great  countries,  all  belonging  to  a  few 
lazy  savages,  that  roam  over  them  in  search  of  game, 
while  other  countries  are  so  crowded  that  folks  can 
scarcely  support  themselves  on  the  produce  of  the  soil. 
Now,  Mr.  Chairman,  d'ye  suppose  any  body  will  stand 
by  and  see  countries  capable  of  supporting  all  the  sur- 
plus population  of  the  civilized  world  in  the  hands  of  a 
few  pagan  savages,  that  don't  know  any  better  than  to 
make  their  ladies  work  for  them  ? 

Chairman.     Sergeant  Timothy  O'Trigger,  gentlemen. 

O  Trigger.  Mr.  Chairman,  as  I  said  before,  I  am  i» 
sojer,  and  seed  more  in  my  day,  mayhap,  than  mari}^ 
people  here.  Mr.  Blowhard  talks  about  taking  countries 
away  from  savages  because  they  are  so  few,  and  wants  to 
know  who  wouldn't.  Well,  so  do  I,  Mr.  Chairman 
But  suppose  we  try  the  experiment  among  ourselves. 
There  is  Mr.  Blowhard,  himself.  He  is  a  hachelo7%  and 
has  a  large  extent  of  territory  in  the  shape  of  a  farm, 
which  he  roams  over  at  pleasure;  while  here  I  am,  a 
poor  fellow,  with  fourteen  young  ones,  and  a  wife  to 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  7\ 

boot,  all  endeavoring  to  live  on  the  produce  of  a  bit  of 
land  not  one-twentieth  part  as  large  as  Mr.  Blowhard's. 
Then,  again,  I  verily  believe  Mr.  Blowhard  is  a  pagan, 
or  some  such  biped,  for  I  never  saw  him  go  to  church. 
Now,  sir,  d'ye  suppose  I'll  stand  by  and  see  all  this  fine 
territory — capable  of  supporting  all  my  surplus  popula- 
tion— in  the  hands  of  a  single  pagan,  and  a  bachelor  at 
that?  No;  by  my  valor,  I  won't!  I  expect  Mr.  Blow- 
hard  '11  justify  me,  seeing  he's  a  lawyer,  and  argued  so 
well  for  others  in  the  same  case. 

{Cries  of  "Mr.  Chairman."^ 

Chairman.     Mr.  Blowhard,  gentlemen. 

Blowhard.  Sir,  I  spoke  of  the  savages  only,  when  I 
said  that  nobody  would  stand  by  and  see  countries  lying 
useless  in  their  hands. 

O Trigger.  The  savage  is  a  man,  as  well  as  you,  sir, 
and  should  be  allowed  the  same  privileges  as  other  men. 

Blowhard.  Then,  if  that's  the  case,  I  suppose  I  was 
wj-ong  in  what  I  said,  and  that  every  body  has  a  right  to 
his  own  property.  But  why  is  Deacon  Herring  on  the 
other  side  of  the  question  ? 

Chairman.  {Raps.)  Order,  order,  gentlemen.  If  any 
body  wishes  to  speak,  he  must  address  the  chair. 

{Cries  of  "  Mr.  Chairman."^ 

Chairman.     Deacon  Zebeaiah  Herring,  gentlemen. 

Herring.  Mr.  Chairman,  my  reason  for  being  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  question  is,  as  I've  said  before,  be- 
cause I  wished  to  have  the  savages  converted  to  Cliris- 
tianity.  But  I  suppose  I  must  submit  to  being  convert- 
ed myself  now,  as  I  see  clearly  that  the  measures  taken 
by  civilized  nations  do  not  attain  that  object,  and  are  any 
thing  but  desirable.     {A  pause  ensues.) 

Chairman.  Gentlemen,  if  nobody  else  wishes  to 
speak,  I'll  put  the  question.  All  in  favor  of  the  affirm- 
ative— that  civilized  nations  are  justified  in  seizing  ard 
occupying  countries  inhabited  by  savages,  will  signify  it 
by  saying  Aye.     {No  response.) 

All  in  favor  of  the  negative  will  please  signify  it 

All.     Aye,  aye. 

Chairman.     The  negative  has  it 


72  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

DIALOGUE    XXII. 

QUACKERY. 

Volatile.  Your  "humble  servant,  sir — walk  in,  sir— -sit 
down,  sir.  {Bringing  a  chair.)  My  master  will  wait  on 
you  in  a  moment,  sir — he's  busy  dispatching  some  pa 
tients,  sir — I'll  tell  him  you  are  here,  sir — be  back  in  a 
twinkling,  sir. 

Sinclair.  No,  no ;  I  will  wait  till  he  has  done ;  I  wish 
to  consult  him  about 

Volatile.  Eight,  sir ;  you  could  not  have  applied  to  a 
more  able  physician.  My  master  is  a  man  that  under- 
stands physic  as  fundamentally  as  I  do  my  mother  tongue, 
sir. 

Sinclo'-^.     He  appears  to  have  an  able  advocate  in  you. 

Volat'i'^..  I  do  not  say  this,  sir,  because  he  is  my  mas- 
tc;r ;  but  'tis  really  a  pleasure  to  be  his  patient ;  and  I 
should  i-ather  die  by  his  medicines  than  be  cured  by  those 
of  any  other ;  for,  whatever  happens,  a  man  may  be  cer- 
tain that  he  has  been  regularly  treated ;  and,  should  he 
die  under  the  operation,  his  heirs  would  have  nothing  to 
reproach  him  for. 

Sinclair.     That's  a  mighty  comfort  to  a  dead  man. 

Volatile.  To  be  sure,  sir;  who  would  not  wish  to  die 
methodically?  Besides,  he's  not  one  of  those  doctors 
who  husband  the  disease  of  their  patients.  He  loves  to 
dispatch  business ;  and,  if  they  are  to  die,  he  lends  them 
a  helping  hand. 

Sinclair.     There's  nothing  like  dispatch  in  business. 

Volatile.  That's  true,  sir.  What  is  the  use  of  so  much 
hemming,  and  hawing,  and  beating  round  the  bush  ?  I 
like  to  know  the  long  and  short  of  a  distemper  at  once. 

Sinclair.     Eight,  undoubtedly. 

Volatile.  Eight !  Why,  there  were  three  of  my  chil- 
dren, whose  illness  he  did  me  the  honor  to  take  care  of, 
who  all  died  in  less  than  four  days ;  when,  in  another's 
hands,  they  would  have  languished  three  months. 

(Enter  Doctor.) 

Volatile.     Sir,  this  gentleman  is  desirous  of  consult 
ing 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  78 

Doctar.  I  perceive  it,  sir;  he  is  a  dying  man.  Do  you 
eat  well,  sir? 

Sinclair.     Eat  I     Yes,  sir ;  perfectly  well. 

Doctor.  Bad,  very  bad ;  the  epigastric  region  must 
be  shockingly  disordered.     How  do  you  drink,  sir  ? 

Sinclair.     Nobody  drinks  better,  sir. 

Doctor.  So  much  the  worse.  The  great  appetition  of 
frigid  and  humid  is  an  indication  of  the  great  heat  and 
aridity  within.     Do  you  sleep  soundly? 

Sinclair.     Yes,  when  I  have  supped  heartily 

Doctor.  This  indicates  a  dreadful  torpidity  of  the  sys- 
tem ;  and,  sir,  I  pronounce  you  a  dead  man.  After  con- 
sidering the  diagnostic  and  prognostic  symptoms,  I 
pronounce  you  attacked,  affected,  possessed,  and  disor- 
dered by  that  species  of  mania  termed  hypochondria. 

Volatile.  Undoubtedly,  sir.  My  master  never  mis- 
takes, sir. 

Doctor.  But,  for  an  incontestible  diagnostic,  you  may 
perceive  his  distempered  ratiocination,  and  other  pathog- 
nomonick  symptoms  of  this  disorder. 

Volatile.     What  will  you  order  him,  sir  ? 

Doctor.     First,  a  dozen  purges. 

Volatile.     But  should  these  have  no  effect ? 

Doctor.  We  shall  then  know  the  disease  does  not  pro- 
ceed from  the  humors. 

Volatile,     What  shall  we  try  next,  sir  ? 

Doctor.     Bleeding ;  ten  or  fifteen  ounces  twice  a  day. 

Volatile.     If  he  grow  worse  and  worse,  what  then  ? 

Doctor.     It  will  prove  the  disease  is  not  in  his  blood. 

Volatile.  What  application  would  you  then  recom- 
mend? 

Doctor.  My  infallible  sudorific.  Sweat  him  off  five 
pounds  a  day,  and  his  case  can  not  long  remain  doubtful. 

Volatile,  I  congratulate  the  gentleman  upon  falling 
into  your  hands,  sir.  He  must  consider  himself  happy 
in  having  his  senses  disordered,  that  he  may  experience 
the  efficacy  and  gentleness  of  the  remedies  you  have  pro- 
posed. 

Sinclair.  What  does  all  this  mean,  gentlemen?  I  do 
not  understand  your  gibberish  and  nonsense. 

Doctor.  Such  injurious  language  is  a  diagnostic  we 
wanted  to  confirm  our  opinion  of  his  distemper. 


7 


74  ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES. 

Sinclair.  Are  you  crazy,  gentlemen?  {Spit'i  in  his 
hand,  and  raises  his  cane.) 

Doctor.     Another  diagnostic.     Frequent  sputation. 

Sinclair.     You  had  better  be  done,  and  make  off. 

Doctor.  Another  diagnostic!  Anxiety  to  change 
place.     We  will  fix  you,  sir.     Your  disease 

Sinclair.     I  have  no  disease,  sir. 

Doctor.  A  bad  symptom  when  a  patient  is  insensible 
of  his  illness. 

Sinclair.     I  am  well,  sir,  I  assure  you. 

Doctor.  We  know  best  how  that  is,  sir.  We  ph3'si- 
cians  see  through  your  constitution  at  once. 

Sinclair.     You  are  then  a  physician,  sir? 

Volatile.  Yes,  sir;  this  is  my  master,  sir,  the  cele- 
brated Dr.  Pumpwater,  sir,  the  enemy  of  human  diseases, 
sir. 

Sinclair.     Who  has  traveled  over  the  country  ? 

Doctor.     The  same,  sir. 

Sinclair.  I  am  happy  to  hear  it,  gentlemen.  I  have 
long  been  in  search  of  you,  and  have  a  warrant  for  your 
apprehension,  on  an  indictment  for  vagrancy.  A  lucky 
mistake  has  enabled  me  to  become  a  useful  witness. 
You  will  please  to  follow  your  patient  to  the  work-house. 


DIALOGUE    XXIII. 

THE  WAY  TO  JOHN  SMITH'S. 


Traveler.  Good  morning,  sir.  Will  you  direct  me  the 
way  to  John  Smith's  ? 

Squatter.  Certainly,  sir;  if  there  is  any  thing  in  the 
world  I  do  know,  it  is  the  way  to  John  Smith's. 

Traveler.     Glad  to  hear  it.     Please  direct  me  the  wa3^ 

Squatter.  That  I  will,  sir.  As  I  was  saying,  if  there 
is  any  thing  in  the  world  I  do  know,  it  is  the  way  to 
John  Sm^ith's.  John  and  me  moved  out  from  North  Car« 
olina  together ;  and  he  has  got  the  truest  pulling  yoke  of 
oxen  you  ever  saw  in  your  born  days.  The  way  they 
can  pull 

Traveler.  My  dear  sir,  I  am  in  a  hurry  to  get  oa 
Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  direct  me  ? 


ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES.  75 

Squatter.  Will  I?  Why  that's  what  I  am  just  going 
to  do.  As  I  was  saying,  John  and  me  moved  out  to- 
gether. He  settled  just  over  there,  t'other  side  of  the 
maple  swamp — but  he  don't  live  there  now. 

Traveler.  In  the  name  of  wonder,  where  does  he  live, 
then  ?     Now  do,  my  good  sir,  just  inform  me  the  way  f 

Squatter.  I  will  that;  for,  as  I  was  saying,  if  there  is 
any  thing  in  the  world  I  do  know,  it  is  the  way  to  John 
Smith's  Why,  John  and  me  married  sisters,  and  he's 
got  a  smart  wife,  I  tell  you.  She  can  spin  her  six  cuts 
a  day,  and  attend  to  family  fixins  into  the  bargain. 
And 

Traveler.  I  declare,  sir,  I  shall  get  impatient  present- 
ly. My  business  is  with  John  Smi^ — not  his  wife,  or  her 
family  iixins  either. 

Squatter,  Exactly,  sir;  I  understand  that.  But,  as  I 
was  saying,  John's  nigger  man  Bob  is,  I  do  reckon,  the 
valublest  nigger  in  all  these  diggins.  Why,  he  can  pick 
out  his  150  pound  of  cotton  in  the  day,  and  then  shell  a 
turn  of  corn  for  mill  at  night.  He's  a  clinker ;  now  mind, 
I  tell  you. 

Traveler,  Well,  I  would  be  glad  to  see  so  smart  a 
negro  as  Mr.  Bob ;  so  do,  I  pray,  direct  me  to  his  mas- 
ter's. 

Squatter.  Don't  be  in  such  a  sivivii,  mister;  I  can  tell 
you  something  more  about  John's  family  you'd  like  to 
know.  He's  got  the  smartest  little  gal  that's  in  all  Ar- 
kansas. She's  only  been  to  school  two  years,  and  she's 
got  as  far  as  amplification. 

Traveler.  Confound  John  Smith's  daughter,  and  you 
with  her !  I  think  you  have  got  as  far  as  amplification 
yourself.  For  I  asked  you  a  simple  question,  and  you 
have  been  amplifying  for  half  an  hour  on  different  sub- 
jects, and  I  am  no  nearer  getting  an  answer,  it  seems, 
than  at  first 

Squatter.  Look'e  here,  stranger;  don't  you  confound 
John's  darter:  for  she's  my  niece,  and  a  smart  one  she  is 
too.  Besides,  it  is  not  respectful  to  talk  so  about  the 
child,  seeing  you  know  nothing  about  her. 

TVaveler.  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.  I  did  speak  too 
hastily.  But  come,  tell  me  the  way  to  John  Smith's, 
for  that  is  all  I  want  to  know  just  now  Which  road 
sBhall  Ttake? 


76  ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES. 

Squatter.  Tell  you  the  way?  Yes,  that  I  will.  Why, 
my  Bill  knows  the  way  to  his  uncle  John's.  Bill,  didn't 
you  go  to  your  uncle  John's  the  other  afternoon  by  your- 
self? And  didn't  you  ride  old  Dick,  and  carry  a  bag  of 
cotton  to  the  gin  for  spinnin'  truck  ?  And  didn't  old  Dick 
skeer  and  like  to  flung  you?     And 

Traveler.  Good  da}^,  sir;  and  good  riddance  to  you, 
and  John  Smith's  daughter,  nigger  Bob,  and  the  whole 
family!     {Exit^i 

Squatter.  The  same  to  you  and  yourn.  Well,  sich 
another  man  I  never  did  see.  Why,  he's  as  techous  as  a 
half-skinned  eel.  Only  to  think; — ^he  kept  axin'  and 
axin',  and  I  kept  tellin'  and  tellin',  and  he  wouldn't  stay 
to  hear  the  answer  at  last.  Well,  let  him  go  ahead ;  but 
if  he  goes  that  road,  he'll  never  get  to  John  Smith's, 
that's  sartin. 


DIALOGUE    XXIY. 

THE  INSULT  AND  THE  APOLOGY. 

Miss  Prim  sits  reading^  when  Servant  ushers  in  Mr.  Ready. 

Mr.  Ready.  Ah !  good  evening,  Miss  Prim ;  happy  to 
see  you ;  hope  you  are  quite  well  this  evening. 

Miss  Prim.  Yqyj  well,  I  thank  you.  Please  be  seat- 
ed, Mr.  Eeady. 

Mr.  Ready.  ( Very  hlandly.)  Excuse  me,  Miss  Prim, 
1  am  in  great  haste  just  now.  I  called  only  to  ask  if  I 
might  have  the  pleasure  of  your  company  on  a  short  ride 
to-morrow  afternoon. 

Miss  Prim.  I  am  sorry  to  inform  you  that  I  have 
other  arrangements  for  to-morrow  afternoon. 

Mr.  Ready.  ( Very  graciously^  Indeed !  well,  how 
will  it  be  for  next  day  ? 

Miss  Prim.     I  have  engagements  for  that  day  also. 

Mr.  Ready.     And  next? 

Miss  Prim.  Then  also  I  shall  be  particularly  en- 
gaged. 

Mr.  Ready.  {Very  patronizingly.)  Excuse  me,  Misa 
Prim.  I  would  not  interfere  with  any  of  your  plans. 
Will  vou  do  me  the  honor  to  name  some  day,  within  a 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  77 

month,  when  I  may  have  the  pleasure  of  your  company 
on  a  ride  to  the  lake  ? 

Miss  Prim.  My  time  is  all  engaged,  Mr.  Ready,  and 
T  can  not  name  a  day. 

Mr.  Ready.     {Leaving.^  'petulantly  says,)     Go  to  blazes. 

Miss  Prim.  {Alone.)  Good  riddance.  I  am  thankful 
that  he  does  know  enough  to  take  a  hint  at  last.  But 
here  comes  brother  John,  I  must  tell  him  of  the  fellow's 
impudence.  (John  enters.)  I  wish  you  had  been  hero, 
brother,  a  minute  ago.  That  disagreeable  fellow,  Mr. 
Ready,  has  been  here,  and  he  was  quite  insulting  in  his 
remarks. 

John.  {Earnestly^)  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  he  has 
been  impudent.  {To  servant.)  Here,  Peter,  run  and  ask 
that  chap  if  he  will  just  please  to  walk  back.  Tell  him 
he's  wanted :  that's  all.  {Exit  servant.)  I  will  teach  Mr. 
Ready  a  lesson.  I'll  teach  him  that,  if  he  insults  any  of 
the  Prim  family,  he  will  have  to  repent  of  it.  A  pretty 
pass,  surely,  if  Mr.  Jonathan  Ready  has  insulted  Miss 

Cinderilla  Matilda  Prim.     But  he's  coming,  and  I'll 

{Enter  servant  with  Mr.  Beady.) 

John.  {To  Mr.  Ready,  angrily.)  I  hear,  sir,  that  you 
have  insulted  the  house  of  Prim.  Yes,  sir ;  my  sister 
says  you  have  used  language  entirely  unbecoming  a  gen- 
tleman, and  I  demand  satisfaction,  and  that  immediately. 

Mr.  Ready.  {Very  demurely.)  I  am  certainly  very 
sorry  if  I  have  injured  any  one,  and  am  ready  to  do 
whatever  you  say.  I  should  like  to  know  in  what  way 
I  have  insulted  your  worthy  sister. 

John.  She  can  tell  you  what  you  already  know — and 
I  shall  insist  on  a  retraction  before  you  leave  this  house. 

Mr.  Ready.  I  am  ready  to  make  any  apology  or  re- 
traction that  the  case  may  demand. 

John.  {To  Miss  Prim.)  Here,  sister,  you  hear  what 
the  fellow  says      I  turn  him  to  you. 

Mr.  Ready.  I  am  very  sorry,  Miss  Prim,  that  you 
feel  insulted  by  any  remark  of  mine.  If  you  will  tell 
me  in  what  my  insult  consisted,  I  will  most  cheerfully 
retract. 

Miss  Prim.  You  know  very  well,  Mr.  Ready,  that 
you  spoke  to  me  very  impudently.  You  asked  me  to 
accompany  you  to  a  ride;  and,  after  I  had  refused  several 


78  ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES 

times,  you  in  a  very  petulant  tone  said  to  me,  "  Go  to 
blazes." 

Mr.  Ready.  ( Very  meekly.)  Did  I  tell  you  to  "go  to 
blazes,"  Miss  Prim? 

Miss  Prim.     {Earnestly.)     Yes,  you  did. 

Mr.  Ready.  {Condescendingly.)  Well,  Miss  Prim,  you 
needn't  go.     And  now  I  hope  it's  all  right.     {Exit.) 

John.  {Alone.)  Now  the  stain  is  removed,  and  the 
house  of  Prim  stands  where  it  did. 


DIALOGUE   XXY. 

A  LESSON  IN  POLITENESS. 

Dr.  Wisepate — Thaddy  O'Keen — Robert. 

Dr.  Wisepate.  Plague  on  her  ladyship's  ugly  cur! — ^it 
has  broken  three  bottles  of  bark,  that  I  had  prepared  my- 
self for  Lord  Spleen.  I  wonder  Lady  Apes  troubles  me 
with  it.  But  I  understand  it  threw  down  her  flower-pots 
and  destroyed  all  her  myrtles.  I'd  send  it  home  this 
minute,  but  I'm  unwilling  to  offend  its  mistress ;  for,  as 
she  has  a  deal  of  money,  and  no  relation,  she  may  think 
proper  to  remember  me  in  her  will.  {Noise  within.)  Eh ! 
what  noise  is  that  in  the  hall  ? 

(Enter  Thaddy  CKeen^  wet  and  dirty,  followed  hy  Robert) 

Thaddy  OKeen.  But  I  must  and  will,  do  you  see. 
Very  pretty,  indeed,  keeping  people  standing  in  the  hall, 
shivering  and  shaking  with  the  wet  and  cold. 

Robert.  The  mischief's  in  you,  I  believe ;  you  order 
me  about  as  if  you  were  my  master. 

Dr.  Wisepate.  Why,  what's  all  this?  Who  is  this  un- 
mannerly fellow? 

T.  OKeen.  There  1  your  master  says  you  are  an  un- 
mannerly fellow. 

Robert.  Sir,  it's  Lady  Apes'  servant :  he  has  a  letter, 
and  says  he  won't  deliver  it  into  any  one's  hands  but 
your  honor's.  Now,  I  warrant  my  master  will  teach  you 
better  behavioi-.     {Exit.) 


ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES.  79 

T.  GKeen.  Ocli,  are  you  sure  you  arc  Doctor  Wise- 
pate? 

Dr.  Wisepate.     Sure  I  certainly  I  am. 

T.  OKeen.  Och!  plague  on  my  hat,  how  wet  it  is! 
(Shakes  his  hat  about  the  room,  <l-c.) 

Dr.  Wisepate.  {Lays  his  spectacles  down,  and  rises  from 
the  table.)  Bless  me !  fellow,  don't  wet  my  room  in  that 
manner ! 

T.  OKeen  Eh  !  Well  i— Oh,  I  beg  pardon— there's 
the  letter  ;  and  since  I  must  not  dry  my  hat  in  the  room, 
why,  as  you  desire  it,  I  will  go  down  to  the  kitchen,  and 
dry  it  and  myself  before  the  fire.     {Goes  out.) 

Dr.  Wisepate.  Here,  you  sir,  come  back.  I  will 
teach  you  better  manners.  {Re-enter  Thaddy  OKeen,) 
Hark  you,  fellow — whom  do  you  live  with  ? 

T.  OKeen.  Whom  do  I  live  with?  why,  with  my 
mistress,  to  be  sure.  Lady  Apes. 

Dr.  Wisepate.  And  pray,  sir,  how  long  have  you 
lived  with  her  ladyship  ? 

T.  OKeen.  How  long?  Ever  since  the  first  day  she 
hired  me. 

Dr.  Wisepate.  And  has  her  ladyship  taught  you  no 
better  manners? 

T.  OKeen.  Manners?  she  never  taught  me  any,  good 
or  bad. 

Dr.  Wisepate.  Then,  sir,  I  will;  I'll  show  you  how 
you  should  address  a  gentleman,  when  you  enter  a  room. 
What's  your  name? 

T.  OKeen.  Name— why,  it's  Thaddy  O'Keen,  my 
jewel.  {Aside.)  What  in  wonder  is  he  going  to  do  with 
my  name! 

Dr.  Wisepate.  Then,  sir,  you  shall  be  Dr.  Wisepate 
for  a  while,  and  I'll  be  Thaddy  O'Keen,  just  to  show  you 
how  you  should  enter  a  room,  and  deliver  a  letter. 

T.  OKeen.  Eh!  what?  make  a  swap  of  ourselves! 
With  all  my  heart.     Here's  my  wet  hat  for  you. 

Dr.  Wisepate.     There,  sit  down  in  my  chair.     {Exit) 

T.  OKeen.  Stop,  stop,  honey — by  my  shoul  you  can 
never  be  Thaddy  O'Keen  without  you  have  this  little 
shillalah  in  your  fist.     There. 

Dr.  Wisepate.  Very  well.  Sit  you  down.  {7'ahei 
Thaddy'' s  hat,  &c.,  and  goes  out.) 


80  ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES. 

T.  OKeen.  (Solus.)  Let  me  see;  I  never  can  be  a 
doctor  either,  without  some  sort  of  a  wig.  Oh,  here  is 
one — and  here  is  my  spectacles,  faith.  On  my  conscience, 
I'm  the  thing!  {Puts  on  the  wig  awkwardly^  and  the  spec- 
tacles ;  then  sits  in  the  doctor's  chair.  Dr.  Wisepate  knocks.) 
Walk  in  honey.  {Helps  himself  to  chocolate  and  bread  and 
butter.) 

{Re-enter  Dr.  Wisepate^  lowing.) 

Dr.  Wisepate.  Please  your  honor.  {Aside.)  What  as- 
surance the  fellow  has! 

T.  OKeen.  Speak  out,  young  man,  and  don't  be  bash- 
ful.    {Eating^  &c.) 

Dr.  Wisepate.  Please  your  honor,  my  lady  sends  her 
respectful  compliments — hopes  your  honor  is  well. 

T.  OKeen.     Pretty  well,  pretty  well,  I  thank  you. 

Dr.  Wisepate.  And  has  desired  me  to  deliver  your 
honor  this  letter. 

T.  OKeen.  That  letter — well,  why  don't  you  bring  it 
to  me  ?     Pray,  am  I  to  rise  from  the  table  ? 

Dr.  Wisepate.  {Aside.)  So,  he's  acting  my  charac- 
ter with  a  vengeance.  But  Til  humor  him.  {Qives  the 
letter^  boiving.)     There,  your  honor. 

T.  OKeen.  {Opens  the  letter  and  reads.)  *'Sir — Since 
my  dear  Flora  has  given  me  so  much  uneasiness" — Och, 
by  my  shoul,  that's  no  lie — "  I  beg  leave  to  inform  you 
that  a  gentleman  shall  call  either  to-day  or  to-morrow  for 
her.  If  it  should  rain,  I  request  the  poor  thing  may 
have  a" — what's  this?  C-o-a — coat! — coat,  no — "coach. 
Yours."  Hem!  Well — no  answer's  required,  young 
man. 

Dr.  Wisepate.  {Aside.)  His  impudence  has  struck  me 
almost  dumb.     No  answer,  your  honor? 

T.  OKeen.  No,  my  good  fellow — but  come  here — let 
rne  look  at  you.  Oh,  you  seem  yqtj  wet.  Why,  it's 
you,  I  understand,  who  brought  this  troublesome  cur  a 
lew  days  ago ;  you  have  been  often  backward  and  for- 
ward, but  I  could  never  see  you  till  now.  Halloo,  Eob- 
ert !  Where's  my  lazy,  good-for-nothing  servant?  Rob- 
ert!    {Rings  a  bell.) 

Dr.  Wisepate.  (Aside.)  What  the  deuce  does  he 
mean  ? 


ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES.  81 

{Enter  Robert^  who  stares  at  them  both.) 

Robert.  Eh  I  Did— did  you  call,  sir?  {To  Dr.  Wise- 
pate.) 

T,  OKeen,  Yes,  sirrah !  Take  that  poor  fellow  down 
to  the  kitchen  ;  he's  come  upon  a  foolish  errand  this  cold, 
wet  day ;  so,  do  you  see,  give  him  something  to  eat  and 
drink — as  much  as  he  likes — and  bid  my  steward  give 
him  a  guinea  for  his  trouble. 

Bohert     Eh ! 

T.  OKecn.  Thunder  and  ouns,  fellow  I  must  I  put  my 
words  into  my  mouth,  and  take  them  out  again,  for  you? 
Thaddy,  {to  the  doctor)  my  jewel,  just  give  that  blockhead 
of  mine  a  rap  on  his  sconce  with  your  little  bit  of  a 
switch,  and  I'll  do  as  much  for  you  another  time. 

Dr.  Wisepate.  (Aside.)  So,  instead  of  my  instructing 
the  fellow,  he  has  absolutely  instructed  me.  Well,  sir 
you  have  convinced  me  what  Dr.  Wisepate  should  be^ 
and  now  I  suppose  we  are  ourselves  again. 

T.  GKecn.  {Rises.)  With  all  my  heart,  sir.  Here's 
your  honor's  wig  and  spectacles,  and  now  give  me  my 
comfortable  hat  and  switch. 

Dr.  Wisepate.  And,  Kobert,  obey  the  orders  that  my 
representative  gave  you. 

Robert.     What!  carry  him  down  to  the  kitchen  I 

T,  OKeen.  No,  young  man,  I  shan't  trouble  you  to 
carry  me  down;  I'll  carry  myself  down,  and  you  shall 
see  what  a  beautiful  hand-master  O'Keen  is  at  a  knife 
and  fork.     {Eocit  with  Robert.) 

Dr.  Wisepate.  {Solus.)  Well,  this  fellow  has  some  hu- 
mor ;  indeed,  he  has  fairly  turned  the  tables  upon  me. 
I  wish  I  could  get  him  to  give  a  dose  of  my  prescribing 
to  her  ladyship's  cats  and  dogs,  for  the  foolish  woman 
has  absolutely  bequeathed  in  her  will  an  annual  sum  for 
the  care  of  each,  after  her  death.  Oh,  dear!  dear!  how 
much  more  to  her  credit  would  it  be  to  consider  the  pres- 
ent exigences  of  her  countr}^,  and  add  to  the  number  oi 
voluntary  contributions! 


82  ENTEETAI]S'ING  DIALOGUES. 

DIALOGUE    XXVI. 

DRESS  AND  ASSURANCE. 

George.  How  are  you,  Dick  ?  Why,  what's  the  mat- 
ter, boy  ?     Whose  sins  are  you  lamenting  now  ? 

Richard.  Yours,  George.  I  can  not  but  tremble  for 
you,  when  I  consider  what  must  be  the  inevitable  conse- 
quence of  your  present  line  of  conduct. 

George.  Pshaw,  Dick !  Now  don't,  my  good  fellow, 
distress  yourself  on  my  account ;  for  I  am  determined  to 
enjoy  life,  and  I  should  be  sorry  to  have  my  enjoyment 
the  source  of  pain  to  an  old  friend. 

Richard.     What  do  you  mean  by  enjoyment? 

George.  Enjoyment?  Why,  plenty  of  all  the  good 
things  of  this  world,  and  a  comfortable  sit-down  now  and 
then  with  one's  friends. 

Richard.  But  do  you  not  recollect  that  your  resources 
are  by  no  means  equal  to  your  dress  and  other  extraor- 
dinary expenses? 

George.  We  bloods  look  to  our  dress  for  resources, 
and  not  to  our  resources  for  dress,  as  you  do. 

Richard.     Can  you  do  this  honestly  ? 

George,  Hon-est-ly?  {Drawling  it  out.)  We  have  no 
such  word  in  our  vocabulary. 

Richard.  So  it  would  seem.  But,  tell  me,  how  do 
you  contrive  to  keep  up  such  an  appearance  of  wealth 
and  fashion,  when  I  can  barely  subsist?  What  is  the 
chief  requisite? 

George.  Assurance^  my  dear.  Lay  in  a  good  stock  of 
assurance,  and  you  will  have  a  mine  at  your  disposal. 

Richard.     But  will  assurance  clothe  me? 

George.  Yes,  and  feed  you  too.  Hark  ye,  Dick;  if 
youi*  clothes  are  worn  out,  or  unfashionable,  go  to  a  tailor, 
and  order  a  suit  of  the  best  cloth,  to  be  sent  to  3^0  ur 
lodgings.  Say  nothing  about  the  price,  mind  you ;  say 
nothing  about  that ;  none  but  the  vulgar,  who  intend  to 
pay^  ever  say  any  thing  about  the  price. 

Richard.     Well,  but  must  not  I  pay  for  them  ? 

George.  Pay  for  them?  No,  man.  When  Whip- 
Btitch  calls  for  his  money,  order  another  suit.     Try  this 


ENTERIAINING   DIALOGUES.  S'6 

expedient  till  he  refuses  to  work  for  you ;  then  swear  at 
him  for  a  troublesome  puppy,  and  forbid  him  your  house. 

Richard.     Clothes,  however,  are  not  all  I  shall  need. 

George.  That's  true,  Dick  ;  but  they  will  pi-ocure  eve- 
ly  thing  else.  What's  a  man  without  clothes?  A 
smooth  shilling,  that  hardly  passes  for  what  it  really 
weighs,  while  every  body  gives  currency  to  one  fresh 
from  the  mint.  Clothes,  Dick,  are  a  sine  qua  non  with  us 
bloods. 

Richard.  How  so  ?  Every  body  appears  to  laugh  at 
vour  fashionable  trim,  and  wonder  how  you  dare  appear 
«o  ridiculous. 

George.  Yes ;  and  yet  the  same  people  do  us  homage. 
No  door  is  closed  agamst  a  fine  coat ;  few  tradesmen  in- 
quire how  we  came  by  it ;  and  where  is  the  lady  who 
does  not  prefer  it  to  an  old,  unfashionable  one,  let  wh^ 
will  be  in  it? 

Richard.  But  still  I  should  appear  awkward  in  com- 
pany. 

George.  Not  if  you  have  assurance.  An  impudent 
fellow  may  do  a  thousand  awkward  things,  which  would 
ruin  a  modest  man.  Nay,  Dick,  we  sometimes  have  our 
blunders  imitated.  You  recollect  the  story  of  Lord 
Spencer,  who,  losing  the  skirts  of  his  coat  accidentally, 
had  assurance  enough  to  wear  what  was  left  on  his  shoul- 
ders, and  obtained  the  honor  of  introducing  the  garment 
which  bears  his  name. 

Richard.  He  was  more  successful  than  the  fox  we  read 
of  in  the  fable,  who,  having  lost  his  tail,  wished  to  per- 
suade his  brethren  of  the  inutilit}^  of  that  appendage. 

George.  He  was  ashamed  of  his  loss,  Dick.  Depend 
upon  it,  that  fox  wanted  assurance.  But  my  principles 
are  gaining  ground  fast,  or  how  else  can  you  account  for 
the  fact,  that  men  of  three-score  are  turning  fops,  and 
most  of  the  rising  generation  attend  to  nothing  but  dress. 
Time  was  when  the  long  coat  and  surtbut  were  the  pccu- 
liar  garb  of  manhood ;  now,  no  boy  is  without  them. 

Richard.  You  might  add  that  drinking  and  tobacco, 
gaming  and  debt,  were  once  the  vic(^s  of  men,  but  now 
every  tashionable  urchin  can  drink  his  bottle,  smoke  his 
cigar,  and  bet  like  a  gamester.  Of  debts  I  have  nothing 
to  add  to  the  description  you  have  given  me. 


84  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

George,  You  have  omitted  one  accomplishment,  how* 
ever.  The  lad  of  fashion  must  swear  a  little.  Nothing 
will  show  one's  consequence  like  a  volley  of  oaths  now 
and  then  But  dress  is  the  remote  cause  of  all  this.  I 
am  sorry  to  own  it,  but  you  seldom  see  a  man  of  sense 
who  is  a  fop.  When  you  dress  a  calf's  head,  you  must 
always  take  out  the  brains. 

Richard.  But  how  do  all  these  consequences  proceed 
from  dress? 

George.  I  will  tell  you,  since  I  have  begun  to  reveal 
our  secrets.  The  time  was,  Dick,  when  modesty  was  con- 
sidered an  accomplishment  in  children,  and  deference  to 
their  superiors  a  duty.  But  now,  almost  as  soon  as  they 
can  walk,  children  are  sent  to  the  dancing  academy  to 
get  rid  of  their  modesty,  and  learn  to  disregard  the  pres- 
ence of  their  elders  and  superiors. 

Richard.     How  does  this  affect  their  dress  ? 

George.  The  competition  commences  at  school,  and 
then,  as  the  tuition  will  all  be  lost  without  practice,  and 
there  is  some  fear  of  the  lad's  relapsing  into  his  former 
modesty,  he  must  be  introduced  into  company,  and  fre- 
quent balls  and  assemblies,  where  dress  is  indispensable. 
And  as,  with  a  genteel  coat,  and  a  thorough  knowledge 
of  the  capacity  of  his  heels,  he  mets  with  a  better  recep- 
tion than  real  worth  does  in  a  plain  garb,  it  is  no  wonder 
that  so  many  of  our  young  men  decorate  their  persons 
instead  of  adorning  their  minds,  and  parade  at  the  cor- 
ners of  our  streets  instead  of  attending  to  their  business 
or  studies. 

Richard.     But  is  not  all  this  an  argument  against  dress? 

George.  Yes,  Dick ;  but  what  has  argument  to  do 
with  fashion.  You  might  as  well  talk  of  reason  to  the 
idiot,  who  is  not  a  subject  of  it. 

Richard.  Do  you  ever  consider  what  the  end  of  all 
this  folly  must  necessarily  be  ? 

George,  O,  no!  Futurity  is  another  word  we  have 
nothing  to  do  with.  But  I  have  made  my  confessions, 
and  have  no  idea  of  hearing  a  lecture  upon  them.  So 
good-bye  to  you;  the  first  glass  I  drink  shall  be  to  your 
health  and  reformation. 

Richard.  You  had  better  continue  thirsty,  and  pro- 
mote your  own.     I  thank  you,  however,  for  the  hints 


KNTERTAINING   DIALOGUES  86 

you  have  given  me ;  and  I  trust,  in  future,  I  shall  re- 
main contented  with  my  obscurity,  and  no  longer  envy 
those  whose  exterior  is  their  only  recommendation. 


DIALOGUE    XXVII. 

ANGER  AND  OBSTINACY. 


Capt.  A.  Sir  Anthony,  I  am  delighted  to  see  you  here, 
and  looking  so  well  I  Your  sudden  arrival  at  Bath  made 
me  apprehensive  for  your  health. 

Sir  A.  Very  apprehensive,  I  dare  say.  Jack.  What, 
you  are  recruiting  here,  hey  ? 

Gapt.  A.     Yes,  sir,  I  am  on  duty. 

Sir  A.  Well,  Jack,  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  though  I 
did  not  expect  it ;  for  I  was  going  to  write  to  you  on  a 
little  matter  of  business.  Jack,  I  have  been  considering 
that  I  grow  old  and  infirm,  and  shall  probably  not  be 
with  you  long. 

Capt.  A.  Pardon  me,  sir,  I  never  saw  you  look  more 
strong  and  hearty ;  and  I  pray  fervently  that  you  may 
continue  so. 

Sir  A.  I  hope  your  prayers  may  be  heard,  with  all 
my  heart.  Well,  then,  Jack,  I  have  been  considering 
that  I  am  so  strong  and  hearty,  I  may  continue  to  plague 
you  a  long  time.  Now,  Jack,  I  am  sensible  that  the  in- 
come of  your  commission,  and  what  I  have  hitherto 
allowed  you,  is  but  a  small  pittance  for  a  lad  of  your 
spirit 

Capt.  A.     Sii,  you  are  very  good. 

Sir  A.  And  it  is  my  wish,  while  yet  I  live,  to  have 
my  boy  make  some  figure  in  the  world.  I  have  resolved, 
therefore,  to  fix  yoil  at  once  in  a  noble  independence. 

Capt.  A.  Sir,  your  kindness  overpowers  me.  Yet, 
sir,  I  presume  you  would  not  wish  me  to  quit  the  ann}^? 

Sir  A.     Oh  !  that  shall  be  as  your  wife  chooses. 

Capt,  A.     My  wife,  sir  I 

Sir  A.  Aye,  aye,  settle  that  between  you  ;  settle  that 
between  you. 

Capt.A.     A  wife,  sir,  did  you  say ? 
8 


86  ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES. 

Sir  A.  Aje,  a  wife ;  why,  did  not  I  mention  her  be 
fore  ? 

CapL  A.     Not  a  word  of  her,  sir. 

jSit  a.  Yes,  Jack,  the  independence  I  was  talking  of 
IS  by  marriage ;  the  fortune  is  saddled  with  a  wife ;  but 
I  suppose  that  makes  no  difference  ? 

Capt.  A.     Sir,  sir,  you  amaze  me ! 

Sir  A.  What's  the  matter  with  the  fool? — just  now 
you  were  all  gratitude  and  duty. 

Capt.  A.  I  was,  sir;  you  talked  to  me  of  independ- 
ence and  a  fortune,  but  not  one  word  of  a  wife. 

Sir  A.  Why,  what  difference  does  that  make  ?  Sir, 
if  you  have  the  estate,  you  must  take  it  with  the  live 
stock  on  it,  as  it  stands. 

Capt.  A.     Pray,  sir,  who  is  the  lady  ? 

Sir  A.  What's  that  to  you,  sir  ?  Come,  give  me  your 
promise  to  love,  and  to  marry  her  directly. 

Capt.  A.  Sure,  sir,  that's  not  very  reasonable,  to  sum- 
mon my  affections  for  a  lady  I  know  nothing  of! 

Sir  A.  I  am  sure,  sir,  'tis  more  unreasonable  in  j'-ou 
to  object  to  a  lady  you  know  nothing  of, 

Capt.  A.  You  must  excuse  me,  sir,  if  I  tell  you,  once 
for  all,  that  in  this  point  I  can  not  obey  you. 

Sir  A.  Hark  ye,  Jack,  I  have  heard  you  for  some 
time  with  patience — I  have  been  cool — quite  cool :  but 
take  care  ;  you  know  I  am  compliance  itself,  w^hen  I  am 
not  thwarted ;  no  one  more  easily  led,  when  I  have  my 
own  way ;  but  don't  put  me  in  a  frenzy. 

Capt.  A.  Sir,  I  must  repeat  it ;  in  this  I  can  not  obey 
you. 

Sir  A.  Now,  hang  me,  if  I  ever  call  you  Jack  again, 
while  I  live  I 

Capt.  A.     Nay,  sii*,  but  hear  me. 

Sir  A.  Sir,  I  won't  hear  a  word,  not  a  word !  not  one 
word !  So  give  me  your  promise  by  a  nod,  and  I'll  tell 
/ou  what.  Jack — I  mean  you  dog — if  you  don't  by 

Capt.  A.  What,  sir,  promise  to  link  myself  to  some 
mass  of  ugliness ;  to 

Sir  A.  Zounds !  sirrah !  the  lady  shall  be  as  ugly 
as  I  choose:  she  shall  have  a  hump  on  each  shoulder; 
she  shall  be  as  crooked  as  the  crescent ;  her  one  eye  shall 
roll  like  the  bull's  in  Cox's  museum ;  she  shall  have  a 


KNTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  87 

skin  like  a  mummy's,  and  the  beard  of  a  Jew.  She  shall 
be  all  this,  sirrah!  Yes,  I'll  make  you  ogle  her  all  day, 
and  sit  up  all  night  to  write  sonnets  on  her  beauty. 

Capi.  A.     This  is  reason  and  moderation,  indeed  I 

Sir  A.  None  of  your  sneering,  puppy!  no  grinning, 
jackanapes! 

Capt.  A.  Indeed,  sir,  I  never  was  in  a  worse  humor 
for  mirth  in  my  life. 

Sir  A.  'Tis  false,  sir;  I  know  you  are  laughing  in 
your  sleeve ;  I  know  you'll  grin  when  I  am  gone,  sirrah  I 

Cajjt.  A.     Sir,  I  hope  I  know  my  duty  better. 

Sir  A.  None  of  your  passion,  sir!  none  of  your 
violence,  if  you  please ;  it  won't  do  with  me,  I  promise 

Capl.  A.     Indeed,  sir,  I  never  was  cooler  in  my  life. 

Sir  A.  'Tis  a  confounded  lie !  I  know  you  are  in  a 
passion  in  your  heart ;  I  know  you  are  a  hypocritical 
young  dog;  but  it  won't  do. 

Capt.  A.     Nay,  sir,  upon  my  word 

Sir  A.  So  you  vi'iW  fly  out!  Can't  you  be  cool,  like 
me  ?  What  good  can  passion  do  ?  Passion  is  of  no  serv- 
ice, you  impudent,  insolent,  overbearing  reprobate! 
There,  you  sneer  again!  Don't  provoke  me!  But  you 
rely  on  the  mihlness  of  my  temper,  you  do,  you  dog ! 
You  play  upon  the  meekness  of  my  disposition !  Yet 
take  care;  the  patience  of  a  saint  may  be  overcome 
at  last!  But  mark!  I  give  you  six  hours  and  a  half 
to  consider  of  this;  if  you  then  agree,  without  any  con- 
dition, to  every  thing  on  earth  that  I  choose,  why,  con- 
found you!  I  may  in  time  forgive  you.  If  not,  don't 
enter  the  same  hemisphere  with  me!  don't  dare  to 
breathe  the  same  air,  or  use  the  same  light  with  me;  but 
get  an  atmosphere  and  a  sun  of  your  own :  I'll  strip  you 
of  your  commission;  I'll  lodge  a  five-and-three-pence 
in  the  hands  of  your  trustees,  and  you  shall  live  on  the 
interest.  I'll  disown  you ;  I'll  disinherit  you  ;  and  han/4 
me  if  ever  I  call  you  Jack  again!     {Exit.) 

Capt,  A.  Mild,  gentle,  considerate  father,  I  kiss  your 
hands. 


88  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

DIALOGUE    XXVIII. 

THE  ACTORS. 

Snug,  Bottom,  Flute,  Snout,  Quince,  and  Starveling. 

Quince.     Is  all  your  company  here  r 
Bottom.     You  were  best  to  call  them  generally,  man 
by  man,  according  to  the  scrip. 

Quince.  Here  is  the  scroll  of  every  man's  name, 
which  is  thought  fit,  through  all  Athens,  to  play  in  our 
interlude  before  the  duke  and  duchess,  on  his  wedding- 
day  at  night. 

Bottom.  First,  good  Peter  Quince,  say  what  the  play 
treats  on ;  then  read  the  names  of  the  actors ;  and  so 
grow  to  a  point. 

Quince.  Marry,  our  play  is — The  most  lamentable 
comedy,  and  most  cruel  death  of  Pyramus  and  Thisby. 

Bottom.  A  very  good  piece  of  work,  I  assure  you, 
and  a  merry.  Now,  good  Peter  Quince,  call  forth  your 
actors  by  the  scroll : — masters,  spread  yourselves. 

Quince.  Answer,  as  I  call  you.  Nick  Bottom,  the 
weaver ! 

Bottom.    Eeady  !  Name  what  part  I  am  for,  and  proceed. 
Quince.    You,  Nick  Bottom,  are  set  down  for  Pyramus. 
Bottom.     What  is  Pyramus?  a  lover,  or  a  tyrant? 
Quince.     A  lover,  that  kills  himself  most  gallantly  for 
love. 

Bottom.  That  will  ask  some  tears  in  the  true  perform- 
ing of  it.  If  I  do  it,  let  the  audience  look  to  their  eyes ; 
I  will  move  storms,  I  will  condole  in  some  measure.  To 
the  rest : — yet  my  chief  humor  is  for  a  tyrant :  I  could 
play  Ercles  rarely,  or  a  part  to  tear  a  cat  in,  to  make  all 
split. 

"  The  raging  rocks. 
With  shivering  shocks, 
Shall  break  the  locks 

Of  prison-gates : 
And  Phibbus'  car 
Shall  shine  from  far. 
And  make  and  mar 
The  foolish  fates." 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  89 

This  was  lofty  I  Now  name  the  rest  of  the  players. 
This  is  Ercles  vein,  a  tyrant's  vein  ;  a  lover  is  more  con- 
doling. 

Quince.     Francis  Flute,  the  bellows-mender. 

Flute..     Here,  Peter  Quince. 

Quince.     You  must  take  Thisby  on  you. 

Flute.     What  is  Thisby  ?  a  wandering  knight  ? 

Quin'ie.     It  is  the  lady  that  Pyramus  must  love. 

Flute.  Nay,  faith,  let  me  not  play  a  woman ;  I  have 
a  beard  a  coming. 

Quince.  That's  all  one ;  you  shall  play  it  in  a  mask ; 
and  you  may  speak  as  small  as  you  will. 

Bottom.  An  I  may  hide  my  face,  let  me  play  Thisby, 
too :  I'll  speak  in  a  monstrous  little  voice ; — Thisby, 
Thisby — Ah,  Pyramus,  my  lover  dear;  thy  Thisby  dear  I 
and  lady  dear  I 

Quince.  No,  no ;  you  must  play  Pyramus ; — and, 
Flute,  you  Thisby. 

Bottom.     Well,  proceed. 

Quince.     Kobin  Starveling,  the  tailor  I 

Starveling.     Here,  Peter  Quince ! 
•  Quince.     Eobin  Starveling,  you  must  play  Thisby's 
mother.     Tom  Snout,  the  tinker  I 

Snout.     Here,  Peter  Quince  I 

Quince.  You,  Pyramus'  father;  myself,  Thisby's 
father ; — Snug,  the  joiner,  you,  the  lion's  part ; — and,  I 
hope,  here  is  a  play  fitted. 

Snug.  Have  you  the  lion's  part  written  ?  Pray  you, 
if  it  be,  give  it  me,  for  I  am  slow  of  study. 

Quince.  You  may  do  it  extempore,  for  it  is  nothing 
but  roaring. 

Bottom.  Let  me  play  the  lion,  too :  I  will  roar,  that  I 
will  do  any  man's  heart  good  to  hear  me ;  I  will  roar 
that  I  will  make  the  duke  say.  Let  him  roar  again.  Let 
him  roar  again. 

Quince.  An'  you  should  do  it  too  terribly,  you  would 
fright  the  duchess  and  the  ladies,  that  they  would  shriek ; 
and  that  were  enough  to  hang  us  all. 

All.     That  would  hang  us,  every  mother's  son. 

Bottom.  1  grant  you,  friends,  that  if  you  should  fright 
the  ladies  out  of  their  wits,  they  would  have  no  more 
discretion  but  to  hang  us ;  but  I  will  aggravate  my  voice 

8* 


90  ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES. 

80,  that  I  will  roar  you  as  gently  as  any  sucking  dove ; 
I  will  roar  you  an't  were  any  nightingale. 

Quince.  You  can  play  no  part  but  Pyianius :  for 
Pyramus  is  a  sweet-faced  man ;  a  proper  man,  as  one 
shall  see  in  a  summers  day ;  a  most  lovely,  gentleman- 
like man ;  therefore  you  must  needs  play  Pyramus. 

Bottom.  Well,  I  will  undertake  it.  What  beard  were 
T  best  to  play  it  in  ? 

Quince.     Why,  what  you  will. 

Bottom.  I  will  discharge  it  in  either  your  straw-colored 
beard,  your  orange-tawny  beard,  your  purple-in-grain 
beard,  or  your  French  crown-color  beard,  your  perfect 
yellow. 

Quince.  Some  of  your  French  crowns  have  no  hair  at 
all,  and  then  you  will  play  bare-faced.  But,  masters, 
here  are  your  parts :  and  I  am  to  entreat  you,  request 
you,  and  desire  you,  to  con  them  by  to-morrow  night ; 
and  meet  me  in  the  palace-wood,  a  mile  without  the  town, 
by  moon-light ;  there  will  we  rehearse ;  for  if  we  meet  in 
the  city,  we  shall  be  dogged  with  company,  and  ouv  de- 
vices known.  In  the  meantime,  I  will  draw  a  bill  of 
properties,  such  as  our  play  wants.  I  pray  you,  fail  me 
not. 

Bottom.  We  will  meet ;  and  there  we  may  rehearse 
more  courageously.     Take  pains;  be  perfect;  adieu. 

Quince.     At  the  duke's  oak  we  meet. 

Bottom.     Enough ;  "  Hold,  or  cut  bow-strings." 


DIALOGUE    XXIX, 

OTHELLO  AND  I  AGO 


lago.     My  noble  lord 

Othello.     What  dost  thou  say,  lago 

logo.     Did  Michael  Cassio,  when  you  wooed  my  lady, 
Know  of  your  love  ? 

Othello.     He  did,  from  first  to  last.     Why  dost  thou  ask  ? 

lago.     But  for  the  satisfaction  of  my  thoughts ; 
No  further  harm. 

Othello.     Why  of  thy  thought,  lago? 

lago.     I  did  not  think  he  had  been  acquainted  with  her. 

Othello     0,  yes ;  and  went  between  us  very  oft. 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  91 

logo.     Indeed ! 

Othello.     Indeed  !  aye,  indeed.     Discernest  thou  aught  in  that! 
[s  he  not  honest  ? 

logo.     Honest,  my  lord  ? 

Othello.     Aye,  honest. 

[ago.     My  lord,  for  aught  I  know. 

Othello.     What  dost  thou  think  ? 

lago.     Think,  my  lord  ? 

Othello.     Think,  my  lord ! 
Why,  thou  dost  echo  me, 
As  if  there  were  some  monster  in  thy  thought 
Too  hideous  to  be  shown.     Thou  dost  mean  something ; 
I  heard  thee  say  but  now,  "  I  like  not  that" — 
When  Cassio  left  my  wife.     What  didst  not  like? 
And  when  I  told  thee  he  was  of  my  counsel 
liTmy  whole  course  of  wooing,  thou  criedst,  "Indeed I  ** 
And  didst  contract  and  purse  thy  brow  together, 
As  if  thou  then  hadst  shut  up  in  thy  brain 
Some  horrible  conceit.     If  thou  dost  love  me. 
Show  me  thy  thought. 

lago.     My  lord,  you  know  I  love  you. 

Othello.     I  think  thou  dost ; 
And  for  I  know  thou  art  full  of  love  and  honesty, 
And  weigh'st  thy  words  before  thou  giv'st  them  breath— 
Therefore  these  stops  of  thine  fright  me  the  more ; 
For  such  things,  in  a  false,  disloyal  knave, 
Are  tricks  of  custom ;  but,  in  a  man  that's  just. 
They  are  close  denotements,  working  from  the  heart, 
That  passion  can  not  rule. 

lago.     For  Michael  Cassio, 
I  dare  be  sworn,  I  think  that  he  is  honest 

Othello.     I  think  so  too. 

lago.     Men  should  be  what  they  seem  ; 
Or,  those  that  be  not,  'would  they  might  seem  none! 

Othello.     Certain,  men  should  be  what  they  seem. 

lago.     Why,  then,  I  think  that  Cassio  is  an  honest  man. 

Othello.     Nay,  yet  there's  more  in  this ; 
I  pray  thee,  speak  to  me  as  to  thy  thinkings. 
As  thou  dost  ruminate ;  and  give  thy  worst  of  thoughts 
The  worst  of  words. 

I<igo.     Good  my  lord,  pardon  me ; 


92  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Though  I  am  bound  to  every  act  of  duty, 

I  am  not  bound  to  that  all  slaves  are  free  to. 

Utter  my  thoughts  ?     Why,  say  they  are  vile  and  false— 

As  Where's  that  palace,  whereinto  foul  things 

Sometimes  intrude  not  ?     Who  has  a  breast  so  pure, 

But  some  uncleanly  apprehensions 

Keep  leets,  and  law- days,  and  in  sessions  sit 

With  meditations  lawful  ?     (Exit  logo.) 

Othello.     This  fellow's  of  exceeding  honesty, 
And  knows  all  qualities  with  a  learned  spirit, 
Of  human  dealings.     If  I  do  prove  her  haggard, 
Though  that  her  jesses  were  my  dear  heart-strings, 
I'd  whistle  her  oflT,  and  let  her  down  the  wind. 
To  pray  at  fortune. 

I  think  my  wife  be  honest,  and  I  think  she's  not ; 
I  think  lago  is  just,  and  I  think  he's  not; 
I'll  have  some  proof — her  name,  that  was  as  fresh 
As  Dian's  visage,  is  now  begrimed,  and  black 
As  mine  own  face.     ( TFeeps.)     0,  Desdemona ! 
Had  it  pleased  Heaven 
To  try  me  with  affliction ;  had  he  rained 
All  kinds  of  sores  and  shames  on  my  bare  head  , 
Steeped  me  in  poverty  to  the  very  lips  ; 
Given  to  captivity  me  and  my  hopes — 
I  should  have  found,  in  some  part  of  my  soul, 
A  drop  of  patience. 

But  there,  where  I  have  garnered  up  my  heart — 
Where,  either  I  must  live,  or  bear  no  life  ; 
The  fountain  from  the  which  my  current  runs, 
Or  else  dries  up ;  to  be  discarded  thence ! 

0  now,  for  ever, 
Farewell  the  tranquil  mind  !     Farewell  content  I 
Farewell  the  plumed  troop,  and  the  big  wars. 
That  make  ambition  virtue.     0,  farewell ! 
Farewell  the  neighing  steed,  and  the  shrill  trump, 
The  spirit-stirring  drum,  the  ear-piercing  fife. 
The  royal  banner,  and  all  quality, 
Pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  glorious  war  I 
And  0,  ye  mortal  engines,  whose  rude  throats 
The  immortal  Jove's  dread  clamors  counterfeit, 
B'arewell !     Othello's  occupation's  gone. 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  93 


DIALOGUE    XXX. 

EXTRACT  FROM  A  DIALOGUE  BETWEEN  A  SATIRIC  POET  AND  HIS 
FRIEND. 

Friend.     'Tis  all  a  libel,  Paxton,  sir,  will  say : — 

Poet.     Not  yet,  my  friend !  to-morrow,  faith,  it  may ; 
And  for  that  very  cause  I  print  to-day. 
How  should  I  fret  to  mangle  every  line, 
In  reverence  to  the  sins  of  thirty-nine! 
Vice,  with  such  giant  strides,  comes  on  amain, 
Invention  strives  to  be  before  in  vain ; 
Feign  what  T  will,  and  paint  it  e'er  so  strong, 
Some  rising  genius  sins  up  to  my  song. 

F.     Yet  none  but  you  by  name  the  guilty  lash ; 
Even  Guthry  saves  half  NewgA.*^  by  a  dash. 
Spare  then  the  person,  and  expose  the  vice. 

P.     How !  not  condemn  the  sharper,  but  the  dice  I 
Come  on  then.  Satire !  general,  unconfined. 
Spread  thy  broad  wing,  and  souse  on  all  the  kind. 
Ye  statesmen,  priests,  of  one  religion  all ! 
Ye  tradesmen,  vile,  in  army,  court,  or  hall ! 
Ye  reverend  atheists !  — F.     Scandal !  name  them — who  ? 

P.     Why  that's  the  thing  you  bid  me  not  to  do. 
Who  starved  a  sister — who  forswore  a  debt 
I  never  named  ;  the  town's  inquiring  yet. 
The  poisoning  dame — F.     You  mean — P.     I  don't — F.     You  da 

P.     See,  now,  I  keep  the  secret,  and  not  you ! 
The  bribing  statesman — F.     Hold  !  too  high  you  go. 

P.     The  bribed  elector — F.     There  you  stoop  too  low. 

P.     I  fain  would  please  you  if  I  knew  with  what ; 
Tel.  me,  which  knave  is  lawful  game,  which  not? 
Must  great  offenders,  once  escaped  the  crown, 
Like  royal  hart.**,  be  never  more  run  down  ? 
Admit  your  law  to  spare  the  knight  requires, 
As  beasts  of  nature  may  we  hunt  the  squires  ? 
Su[)pose  I  censure — you  know  what  I  mean — 
To  save  a  bishop,  may  I  name  a  dean  ? 

F.     A  dean,  sir  ?  no ;  his  fortune  is  not  made, 
You  hurt  a  man  that's  rising  iu  the  trade. 


94  ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES. 

P.     If  not  the  tradesman  who  set  up  to-day, 
Much  less  the  prentice  who  to-morrow  may. 
Down,  down,  proud  Satire !  though  a  realm  be  spoiled, 
Arraign  no  mightier  thief  than  wretched  Wild 
Or,  if  a  court,  or  country's  made  a  job. 
Go,  drench  a  pick-pocket,  and  join  the  mob. 

But,  sir,  1  beg  you,  (for  the  love  of  Vice !) 
The  matter's  weighty,  pray  consider  twice ; 
Have  you  less  pity  for  the  needy  cheat, 
The  poor  and  friendless  villain,  than  the  great? 
Alas !  the  small  discredit  of  a  bribe 
Scarce  hurts  the  lawyer,  but  undoes  the  scribe. 
Then  better,  sure,  it  charity  becomes 
To  tax  directors,  who  (thank  God)  have  plums ; 
Still  better  ministers ;  or,  if  the  thing 
May  pinch  even  there — why,  lay  it  on  a  king. 

F.     Stop !  Stop  ! — P.     Must  Satire,  then,  nor  rise,  nor  fall? 
Speak  out,  and  bid  me  blame  no  rogues  at  all. 

F.     Yes,  strike  that  Wild,  I'll  justify  the  blow. 

P.     Strike  ? — Why  the  man  was  hanged  ten  years  ago. 
Who  now  that  obsolete  example  fears  ? 
Even  Peter  trembles  only  for  his  ears. 

F.     What,  always  Peter?     Peter  thinks  you  mad  :- 
You  make  men  desperate,  if  they  once  are  bad. 
But  why  so  few  commended  ? — P.     Not  so  fierce — 
You  find  the  virtue,  and  I'll  find  the  verse. 
But  random  praise — the  task  can  ne'er  be  done ; 
Each  mother  asks  it  for  her  booby  son. 
Each  widow  asks  it  for  the  best  of  men. 
For  him  she  weeps,  for  him  she  weds  again. 
Praise  can  not  stoop,  like  Satire,  to  the  ground ; 
The  number  may  be  hanged,  but  not  be  crowned. 
No  power  the  Muse's  friendship  can  command, 
No  power,  when  Virtue  claims  it,  can  withstand. 
— W^hat  are  you  thinking? — F.     Faith,  the  thought's  no  siL, 
1  think  your  friends  are  out,  and  would  be  in. 

P.     If  merely  to  come  in,  sir,  they  go  out, 
The  way  they  take  is  strangely  round  about. 
F.     They,  too,  may  be  corrupted,  you'll  allow? 

P.     I  only  call  those  knaves  who  are  so  now. 
Is  that  too  little  ?    Come,  then,  I'll  comply — 
Spirit  of  Arnal !  aid  me  while  I  lie. 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  95 

Cobham's  a  coward,  Polwarth  is  a  slave, 
And  Lyttleton  a  dark,  designing  knave. 
St.  John  has  ever  been  a  mighty  fool- 
But,  let  me  add,  sir,  Robert's  mighty  dull 
Has  never  made  a  friend  in  private  life, 
And  was,  besides,  a  tyrant  to  his  wife. 

Ask  you  what  provocation  I  have  had? 
The  strong  antipathy  of  good  to  bad. 
When  Truth  or  Virtue  an  affront  endures, 
The  affront  is  mine,  ray  friend,  and  should  be  yours : 
Mine,  as  a  foe  professed  to  false  pretense, 
Who  thinks  a  coxcomb's  honor  like  his  sense ; 
Wine,  as  a  friend  to  every  worthy  mind ; 
And  mine  as  man  who  feels  for  all  mankind. 

F.     You're  strangely  proud — P.     So  proud,  I  am  no  slave; 
So  impudent,  I  own  myself  no  knave ; 
So  odd,  ray  country's  ruin  makes  me  grave. 
Yes,  I  am  proud  :  I  must  be  proud,  to  see 
Men,  not  afraid  of  God,  afraid  of  me: 
Safe  from  tiie  bar,  the  pulpit,  and  the  throne, 
Yet  touched  and  shamed  by  ridicule  alone. 
0,  sacred  weapon !  left  for  Truth's  defense. 
Sole  dread  of  folly,  vice,  and  insolence ! 
Reverent  I  touch  thee !  but  with  honest  zeal ; 
To  rouse  the  watchmen  of  the  public  weal. 
To  Virtue's  work  provoke  the  tardy  hall. 
And  goad  the  prelate  slumbering  in  his  stall. 


DIALOGUE    XXXI. 

DIALOGUE  FROM  MACBETH. 

Scene. — Malcolm  and  Macduff,  in  t?ie  hinges  palaee  in  England, 

{Enter  Rosae  from  Scotland.) 

Macduff.     See,  who  comes  here  ? 
Malcolm.     My  countryman ;  but  yet  I  know  him  not 
Macduff.     My  ever  gentle  cousin,  welcome  hither. 
Malcolm.     I  know  him  now :  Good  God,  betimes  remove 
The  means  that  make  us  strangers ! 


96  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Rosse    Sir,  Amen. 

Macduff.     Stands  Scotland  where  it  did  ? 

Eosse.     Alas,  poor  country  ; 
Almost  afraid  to  know  itself!     It  can  not 
Be  called  our  mother,  but  our  grave  :  where  nothing, 
But  who  knows  nothing,  is  once  seen  to  smile ; 
Where  sighs,  and  groans,  and  shrieks  that  rent  the  air 
Are  made,  not  marked ;  where  violent  sorrow  seems 
A  modern  ecstasy  ;  the  dead  men's  knell 
Is  there  scarce  asked,  for  who ;  and  good  men's  lives 
Expire  before  the  flowers  in  their  caps, 
Dying,  or  ere  they  sicken. 

Macduff.     0,  relation, 
Too  nice,  and  yet  too  true ! 

Malcolm.     What  is  the  newest  grief? 

Rosse.     That  of  an  hour's  age  doth  hiss  the  speaker ; 
Each  minute  teems  a  new  one. 

Macduff.     How  does  my  wife  ? 

Rosse.     Why,  well. 

Macduff.     And  all  my  children  f 

Rosse.     Well  too. 

Macduff.     The  tyrant  has  not  battered  at  their  peace  ? 

Rosse.     No  ;  they  w^ere  well  at  peace,  when  I  did  leave  thera. 

Macduff.    Be  not  a  niggard  of  your  speech:  how  goes  it? 

Rosse.     When  I  came  hither  to  transport  the  tidings, 
AVhich  I  have  heavily  borne,  there  ran  a  rumor 
Of  many  worthy  fellows  that  were  out ; 
Which  was  to  my  belief  witnessed  the  rather, 
For  that  I  saw  the  tyrant's  power  afoot : 
Now  is  the  time  of  help ;  your  eye  in  Scotland 
Would  create  soldiers,  make  our  women  fight, 
To  doff  their  dire  distresses. 

Malcolm.     Be  it  their  comfort, 
We  are  coming  thither:  gracious  England  hath 
Lent  us  good  Si  ward,  and  ten  thousand  men; 
An  older,  and  a  better  soldier,  none 
That  Christendom  gives  out. 

Rosse.     Would  I  could  answer 
This  comfort  with  the  like !     But  I  have  words 
That  would  be  howled  out  in  the  desert  air, 
Where  hearing  should  not  latch  them. 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  W 

Macduff.     WHiat  concern  they  ? 
The  general  cause?  or  is  it  a  fee-griefi 
Due  to  some  single  breast  ? 

Ro88e.     No  mind,  that's  honest, 
But  in  it  shares  some  woe ;  though  the  main  part 
Pertains  to  you  alone.  • 

Macduff.     If  it  be  mine, 
Keep  it  not  from  me ;  quickly  let  me  have  it. 

Bosae.    Let  not  your  ears  despise  my  tongue  for  ever, 
Which  shall  possess  them  with  the  heaviest  sound 
That  ever  yet  they  heard. 

Macduff.     Humph !  I  guess  at  it. 

Boise.     Your  castle  is  surprised ;  your  wife  and  baboB 
Savagely  slaughtered :  to  relate  the  manner, 
Were,  on  the  quarry  of  these  murdered  deer, 
To  add  the  death  of  you. 

Malcolm.     Merciful  heaven  !— 
What!  man,  ne'er  pull  your  hat  upon  your  brows; 
Give  sorrow  words :  the  grief,  that  does  not  speak, 
Whispers  the  o'erfraught  heart,  and  bids  it  break. 

Macduff.     My  children  too  ? 

£o88e.     Wife,  children,  servants,  all 
That  could  be  found. 

Macduff.     And  I  must  be  from  thence  I 
My  wife  killed  too? 

jRo88e.     I  have  said. 

Malcolm.    Be  comforted : 
Let's  make  us  medicines  of  our  great  revenge. 
To  cure  this  deadly  grief 

Macduff.     He  has  no  children.     All  my  pretty  ones? 

Did  you  say,  all  ?     0,  hell-kite ! All  ? 

What,  all  my  pretty  chickens,  and  their  dam, 
At  one  fell  swoop  ? 

Malcolm.     Dispute  it  like  a  man. 

Maiduff.     I  shall  do  so ; 
But  1  must  also  feel  it  as  a  man : 
I  can  not  but  remember  such  things  were, 
That  were  most  precious  to  me.     Did  heaven  look  on, 
And  would  not  take  their  part  ?     Sinful  Macduff, 
They  were  all  struck  for  thee !  naught  that  I  am, 
Not  for  their  own  demerits  but  for  mine, 

9 


y»i  ENTEKTAII^ING  DIALOGUES. 

Fell  slaughter  on  their  souls : — Heaven  rest  them  now! 

Malcolm.     Be  this  the  whetstone  of  your  sword :  let  grief 
Convert  to  anger ;  blunt  not  the  heart,  enrage  it 

Macduff.     0,  I  could  play  the  woman  with  mine  eyes, 
And  braggart  with  my  tongue!     But,  gentle  heaven, 
Cut  short  all  intermission ;  front  to  front. 
Bring  thou  this  fiend  of  Scotland  and  myself; 
Within  my  sword's  length  set  him ;  if  he  'scape, 
Heaven  forgive  him  too ! 

Malcolm.     This  tune  goes  manly. 
Come,  go  we  to  the  king ;  our  power  is  ready ; 
Our  lack  is  nothing  but  our  leave  ;  Macbeth 
Is  ripe  for  shaking,  and  the  powers  above 
Put  on  their  instruments.     Receive  what  cheer  you  may; 
The  night  is  long,  that  never  finds  the  day.     {Exeunt.) 


DIALOGUE    XXXII. 

WILLIAM  TELL. 


Tell.     Ye  crags  and  peaks,  I'm  with  you  once  again. 
I  hold  to  you  the  hands  you  first  beheld, 
To  show  they  still  are  free.     Methinks  I  hear 
A  spirit  in  your  echoes  answer  me. 
And  bid  your  tenant  welcome  to  his  home 
Again.     0  sacred  forms,  how  proud  you  look ! 
How  high  you  hft  your  heads  into  the  sky ! 
How  huge  you  are  !  how  mighty,  and  how  free  ! 
Ye  are  the  things  that  tower,  that  shine ;  whose  smile 
Makes  glad ;  whose  frown  is  terrible ;  whose  forms, 
Robed  or  unrobed,  do  all  the  impress  wear 
Of  awe  divine.     Ye  guards  of  liberty, 
I'm  with  you  once  again.     I  call  to  you 
"NVith  all  my  voice.     I  hold  my  hands  to  you, 
To  show  they  still  are  free.     I  rush  to  you 
As  though  I  could  embrace  you. 

{Erni  enters.) 

Erni.     You're  sure  to  keep  the  time 
That  comes  before  the  hour. 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  99 

Tell.     The  hour 
Will  soon  be  here.     0,  when  will  Liberty 
Be  here,  my  Erni  ?    That's  my  thought,  which  still 
I  find  beside.     Scaling  yonder  peak, 
I  saw  an  eagle  wheeling  near  its  brow 
O'er  the  abyss  :  his  broad-expanded  wings 
Lay  calm  and  motionless  upon  the  air. 
As  if  he  floated  there  without  their  aid, 
By  the  sole  act  of  his  unlorded  will. 
That  buoyed  him  proudly  up.     Instinctively 
I  bent  my  bow ;  yet  kept  he  rounding  still 
His  airy  circle,  as  in  the  delight 
Of  measuring  the  ampie  range  beneath. 
And  round  about :  absorbed,  he  heeded  not 
The  death  that  threatened  him.     I  could  not  shoot! 
'Twas  liberty  !     I  turned  my  bow  aside, 
And  let  him  soar  away. 

{Enter  Emma.) 

Emma.     0,  the  fresh  morning !     Heaven's  kind  messenger. 
That  never  empty-handed  comes  to  those 
Who  know  to  use  its  gifts.     Praise  be  to  Him 
Who  loads  it  still,  and  bids  it  constant  run 
The  errand  of  his  bounty !     Praise  be  to  Him  ! 
We  need  His  care,  that  on  the  mountain's  cliff 
Lodge  by  the  storm,  and  can  not  lift  our  eyes. 
But  piles  on  piles  of  everlasting  snows, 
O'erhanging  us,  remind  us  of  His  mercy. 

Tell.     Why  should  I,  Emma,  make  thy  heart  acquainted 
With  ills  I  could  shut  out  from  it! — rude  guests 
For  such  a  home !     Here,  only,  wc  have  had 
Two  hearts ;  in  all  things  else — in  love,  in  faith, 
In  hope,  in  joy,  that  never  had  but  one ! 
But,  henceforth,  we  must  have  but  one  here  also. 

Emma.     O,  William,  you  have  wronged  me — kindly  wronged  me. 
Whenever  yet  was  happiness  the  test 
Of  lc7e  in  man  or  woman  ?     Who'd  not  hold 
To  that  which  must  advantage  him?     Who'd  not 
Keep  promise  to  a  feast,  or  mind  his  pledge 
To  share  a  rich  man's  purse?     There's  not  a  churl, 


100  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

However  base,  but  might  be  thus  approved 
Of  most  unswerving  constancy.     But  that 
Which  loosens  churls,  ties  friends,  or  changes  them, 
Only  to  stick  the  faster.     William !  William ! 
That  man  knew  never  yet  the  love  of  woman, 
Who  never  had  an  ill  to  share  with  her. 

Tell.     Not  even  to  know  that,  would  I  in  so 
Ungentle  partnership  engage  thee,  Emma, 
So  will  could  help  it :  but  necessity, 
The  master  yet  of  will,  how  strong  soe'er, 
Commands  me.     When  I  wedded  thee. 
The  land  was  free !     With  what  pride  I  used 
To  walk  these  hills,  and  look  up  to  my  God, 
And  bless  him  that  it  was  so !     It  was  free — 
From  end  to  end,  from  clifif  to  lake,  'twas  free ! 
Free  as  our  torrents  are  that  leap  our  rocks. 
And  plough  our  valleys,  without  asking  leave ; 
Or  as  our  peaks,  that  wear  their  caps  of  snow 
In  very  presence  of  the  regal  sun. 
How  happy  was  it  then !     I  loved 
Its  very  storms.     Yes,  Emma,  I  have  sat 
In  my  boat  at  night,  when,  midway  o'er  the  lake, 
The  stars  went  out,  and  down  the  mountain  gorge 
The  wind  came  roaring.     I  have  sat  and  eyed 
The  thunder  breaking  from  his  cloud,  and  smiled 
To  see  him  shake  his  lightnings  o'er  my  head. 
And  think  I  had  no  master  save  his  own. 
You  know  the  jutting  cliff  round  which  a  track 
Up  hither  winds,  whose  base  is  but  the  brow 
To  such  another  one,  with  scanty  room 
For  two  abreast  to  pass  ?     O'ertaken  there 
By  the  mountain  blast,  I've  laid  me  flat  along, 
And,,  while  gust  followed  gust  more  furiously, 
As  if  to  sweep  me  o'er  the  horrid  brink, 
r  have  thought  of  other  lands,  whose  storms 
Arc  summer  flaws  to  those  of  mine,  and  just 
Have  wished  me  there — the  thought  that  mine  was  free 
Has  checked  that  wish,  and  I  have  raised  my  head, 
And  cried  in  thraldom  to  that  furious  wind, 
"Blow  on !     This  is  the  land  of  liberty !  " 

Emma.     I  almost  see  thee  on  that  fearful  pass. 


ENTERTAINING  DI^I^OGUES.  101 

And  yet,  so  seeing  thee,  I  have  a  feeling 
Forbids  me  wonder  that  thou  didst  so. 

Tell     'lis 
A  feeling  must  not  breathe  where  Gesler  breathes, 
But  may  within  these  arms.     List,  Emma,  list! 
A  league  is  made  to  pull  the  tyrant  down, 
E'en  from  his  seat  upon  the  rock  of  Altorf. 
Four  hearts  have  staked  their  blood  upon  the  cast, 
And  mine  is  one  of  them. 


DIALOGUE    XXXIII. 

PRINCE  ARTHUR. 

Scene. — A  room  in  the  Castle.     {Enter  Hubert  and  two  attendants.) 

Hubert.     Heat  me  these  irons  hot :  and,  look  thou  stand 
Within  the  arras  :  when  I  strike  my  foot 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  ground,  rush  forth, 
And  bind  the  boy,  which  you  shall  find  with  me, 
Fast  to  the  chair :  be  heedful :  hence,  and  watch. 

\8t.  Attendant.     I  hope,  your  warrant  will  bear  out  the  deed. 

Hubert.     Uncleanly  scruples !     Fear  not  you  :  look  to  't. 

{Exeunt  Attendants.)    Young  lad,  come  forth ;  I  have  to  say  with 
you. 

{Enter  Arthur.) 

Arthur.    Good  morrow,  Hubert. 

Hubert.  Good  morrow,  little  prince. 

Arthur.     As  little  prince  (having  so  great  a  title 
To  be  more  prince,)  as  may  be.     You  are  sad. 

Hubert.     Indeed,  I  have  been  merrier. 

Arthur.  Mercy  on  me ! 

Methinks,  nobody  should  be  sad  but  I : 
Yet,  I  remember,  when  I  was  in  France, 
Young  gentlemen  would  be  as  sad  as  night, 
Only  for  wantonness.     By  my  Christendom, 
So  I  were  out  of  prison,  and  kept  sheep, 
I  should  be  as  merry  as  the  day  is  long ; 
And  so  I  would  be  here,  but  that  I  doubt 

9* 


102  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Uj  mvile  pTSLctic^s  rafrre  harm  to  me : 

He  is  afraid  of  me,  and  I  of  him : 

Is  it  my  fault  that  I  was  Geflfrey's  son  ? 

No,  indeed,  it's  not :  And  I  would  to  heaven 

I  were  your  son,  so  you  would  love  me,  Hubert. 

Hubert.     (Aside.)    II  I  talk  to  him,  with  his  innocent  prate, 
He  will  awake  my  mercy,  which  lies  dead : 
Therefore  I  will  be  sudden,  and  dispatch. 

Arthur.     Are  you  sick,  Hubert?  you  look  pale  to-day: 
In  sooth,  I  would  you  were  a  little  sick, 
That  I  might  sit  all  night  and  watch  with  you : 
t  warrant,  I  love  you  more  than  you  do  me. 

Hubert.     His  words  do  take  possession  of  my  bosom. 
Read  here,  young  Arthur.     {Showing  a  paper.) 

How  now,  foolish  rheum,     {Aside.) 
Turning  dispiteous  torture  out  of  door ! 
I  must  be  brief,  lest  resolution  drop 
Out  at  mine  eyes,  in  tender  womanish  tears. 
Can  you  not  read  it  ?  is  it  not  fair  writ  ? 

Arthur.     Too  fairly,  Hubert,  for  so  foul  effect : 
Must  you  with  hot  irons  burn  out  both  mine  eyes? 

Hubert.     Young  boy,  I  must. 

Arthur.  And  will  you  ? 

Hubert.  And  I  will. 

Arthur.     Have  you  the  heart?     When  your  head  did  but  ache, 
I  knit  my  handkerchief  about  your  brows, 
(The  best  I  had,  a  princess  wrought  it  me,) 
And  I  did  never  ask  it  you  again ;  _ 
And  with  my  hand  at  midnight  held  your  head ; 
And,  like  the  watchful  minutes  to  the  hour. 
Still  and  anon  cheered  up  the  heavy  time. 
Saying,  What  lack  you  ?  and  Where  lies  your  grief? 
Or,  What  good  love  may  I  perform  for  you  ? 
Many  a  poor  man's  son  would  have  lain  still, 
And  ne'er  have  spoken  a  loving  word  to  you ; 
But  you,  at  your  sick  service,  had  a  prince. 
Nay,  you  may  think  my  love  was  crafty  love, 
And  call  it  cunning ;  Do,  an  if  you  will : 
If  heaven  be  pleased  that  ycu  must  use  me  ill. 
Why,  then  you  must.     Will  you  put  out  mine  eyes? 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  108 

These  ej'es,  that  never  did,  nor  ever  shall, 
So  nnich  as  frown  on  you? 

Hubert.  I  have  sworn  to  do  it ; 

And  with  hot  irons  must  I  burn  them  out. 

Arthur.     Ah,  none  but  in  this  iron  age  would  do  it! 
The  iron  of  itself,  though  heat  red-hot. 
Approaching  near  these  eyes,  would  drink  my  tears, 
And  quench  his  fiery  indignation, 
Even  in  the  matter  of  mine  innocence : 
Nay,  after  that,  consume  away  in  rust, 
But  for  containing  fire  to  harm  mine  eyes. 
Are  you  more  stubborn -hard  than  hammered  iron  ? 
And  if  an  angel  should  have  come  to  me, 
And  told  me,  Hubert  should  put  out  mine  eyes, 
I  would  not  have  believed  a  tongue  but  Hubert's. 

Hubert.     Come  forth.     (Stamps.) 

{Re-enter  Attendants,  with  coi'ds,  irons,  <&c.) 
Do  as  I  bid  you  do. 

Arthur.    0,  save  me,  Hubert,  save  me !  my  eyes  are  out, 
Even  with  the  fierce  looks  of  these  bloody  men. 

Hubert.     Give  me  the  iron,  I  say,  and  bind  him  here. 

Arthur.     Alas,  what  need  you  be  so  boist'rous  rough? 
I  will  not  struggle,  I  will  stand  stone  still. 
For  heaven's  sake,  Hubert,  let  me  not  be  bound, 
And  I  will  sit  as  quiet  as  a  lamb ; 
I  will  not  stir,  nor  wince,  nor  speak  a  word, 
Nor  look  upon  the  irons  angrily : 
Thrust  but  these  men  away,  and  I'll  forgive  you, 
Whatever  torment  you  do  put  me  to. 

Hubert.     Go,  stand  within ;  let  me  alone  with  him. 

Ist.  Attendant.     I  am  best  pleased  to  be  from  such  a  deed. 

(Exeunt  Attendants.) 

Arthur.     Alas !  I  then  have  chid  away  my  friend ; 
He  hath  a  stem  look,  but  a  gentle  heart : — 
Let  him  come  back,  that  his  compassion  may 
Give  life  to  yours. 

Hubert.  Come  boy,  prepare  yourself. 

Arthur.     Is  there  no  remedy  ? 

Hubert.  None,  but  to  lose  your  eyes. 

Arthur.     O,  heaven  I — that  there  was  but  a  mote  in  yourg, 


104  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

A  grain,  a  dust,  a  gnat,  a  wand'ring  hair, 

Any  annoyance  in  that  precious  sense ! 

Then,  feeling  what  small  things  are  boistVous  there, 

Your  vile  intent  must  needs  seem  horrible. 

Hubert.     Is  this  your  promise  ?  go  to,  hold  your  tongue 
Arthur.     Hubert,  the  utterance  of  a  brace  of  tongues 
Must  need  want  pleading  for  a  pair  of  eyes : 
lict  me  not  hold  my  tongue ;  let  me  not,  Hubert 
Or,  Hubert,  if  you  will,  cut  out  my  tongue, 
So  I  may  keep  mine  eyes ;  0,  spare  mine  eyes, 
Though  to  no  use,  but  still  to  look  on  you ! 
Lo,  by  my  troth,  the  instrument  is  cold, 
And  would  not  harm  me. 

Hubert.  I  can  heat  it,  boy. 

Arthur.    No,  in  good  sooth ;  the  fire  is  dead  with  griet; 
Being  create  for  comfort,  to  be  used 
In  undeserved  extremes :  See  else  yourself; 
There  is  no  malice  in  this  burning  coal ; 
The  breath  of  heaven  hath  blown  his  spirit  out, 
And  strewed  repentant  ashes  on  his  head. 

Hubert.     But  with  my  breath  I  can  revive  it,  boy. 
Arthur.     And  if  you  do,  you  will  but  make  it  blush, 
And  glow  with  shame  of  your  proceedings,  Hubert : 
Nay,  it,  perchance,  will  sparkle  in  your  eyes ; 
And  like  a  dog  that  is  compelled  to  fight, 
Snatch  at  his  master  that  doth  tarre  him  on. 
All  things,  that  you  should  use  to  do  me  wrong, 
Deny  their  ofiBce :  only  you  do  lack 
That  mercy,  which  fierce  fire,  and  iron,  extends, 
Creatures  of  note,  for  mercy -lacking  uses. 

Hubert.     Well,  see  to  live ;  I  will  not  touch  thir  t  eyes 
For  all  the  treasures  that  thine  uncle  owns ; 
Yet  am  I  sworn,  and  I  did  purpose,  boy. 
With  this  same  very  iron  to  burn  them  out. 

Arthur.     0,  now  you  look  like  Hubert!  all  this  while 
Yon  were  disguised. 

Hubert.  Peace :  no  more.     Adieu ; 

Your  uncle  must  not  know  but  you  are  dead : 
ni  fill  these  dogged  spies  with  false  reports. 
And,  pretty  child,  sleep  doubtless,  and  secure. 


ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES.  105 

That  Hubert,  for  the  wealth  of  all  the  world, 

Will  not  offend  thee. 

Arthur.     0,  heaven!     I  thank  you,  Hubert 
Hubert.     Silence ;  no  more :  Go  closely  in  with  me ; 

Much  danger  do  I  undergo  for  thee.     {Exeunt.) 


DIALOGUE    XXXIV. 

WOLSEY  AND  CROMWELL. 

Wolsey.     {Alone.)     Farewell — a  long  farewell,  to  all  my  greatness  1 
This  is  the  state  of  man :  to-day  he  puts  forth 
The  tender  leaves  of  hope ;  to-morrow  blossoms. 
And  bears  his  blushing  honors  thick  upon  him  : 
The  third  day,  comes  a  frost,  a  killing  frost ; 
And — when  he  thinks,  good  easy  man,  full  surely 
His  greatness  is  a-ripening — nips  his  root, 
And  then  he  falls,  as  I  do.     I  have  ventured, 
Like  little  wanton  boys  that  swim  on  bladders, 
This  many  summers  in  a  sea  of  glory ; 
But  far  beyond  my  depth:  my  high-blown  pride 
At  length  broke  under  me ;  and  now  has  left  mc, 
Weary,  and  old  with  service,  to  the  mercy 
Of  a  rude  stream,  that  must  for  ever  hide  me. 
Vain  pomp,  and  glory  of  this  world,  I  hate  ye ; 
I  feel  my  heart  new  opened :  Oh  !  how  wretched 
Is  that  poor  man,  that  hangs  on  princes'  favors ! 

{Enter  Cromwell^  amazedly.) 

Why,  how  now,  Cromwell  ? 

Cromwell.     I  have  no  power  to  speak,  sir. 

Wolsey.  What,  amazed 

At  my  misfortunes?  can  thy  spirit  wonder, 
A  great  man  should  decline  ?     Nay,  and  you  weep, 
I  am  fallen  indeed. 

Cromwell.  How  does  your  grace  ? 

WoUey.  Why,  well; 

Never  so  truly  happy,  my  good  Cromwell. 
I  know  myself  now ;  and  I  feel  within  me 
A  peace  above  all  earthly  dignities, 


106  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

A  sHll  and  quiet  conscience.     The  king  has  cured  mc, 

I  humbly  thank  his  grace;  and  from  these  shoulders, 

These  ruined  pillars,  out  of  pity,  taken 

A  load  would  sink  a  navy — too  much  honor : 

Oh  !  'tis  a  burden,  Cromwell,  'tis  a  burden, 

Too  heavy  for  a  man  that  hopes  for  heaven. 

Cromwell.     I  am  glad  your  grace  has  made  that  right  uso  of  it 

Wolsey.     I  hope,  I  have  :  I  am  able  now,  methinks, 
(Out  of  a  fortitude  of  soul  I  feel,) 
To  endure  more  miseries,  and  greater  far, 
Than  my  weak-hearted  enemies  dare  offer. 
What  news  abroad  ? 

Cromwell.  The  heaviest  and  the  worst 

Is  your  displeasure  with  the  king. 

Wolsey.  God  bless  him  1 

Cromwell.     The  next  is  that  Sir  Thomas  More  is  chosen 
Lord  Chancellor  in  your  place. 

Wolsey.  That's  somewhat  sudden : 

But  he's  a  learned  man.     May  he  continue 
Long  in  his  highness'  favor,  and  do  justice 
For  truth's  sake,  and  his  conscience ;  that  his  bones, 
When  he  has  run  his  course,  and  sleeps  in  blessings, 
May  have  a  tomb  of  orphans'  tears  wept  on  'em ! 
What  more? 

Cromwell.     That  Cranmer  is  returned  with  welcome, 
Installed  Lord  Archbishop  of  Canterbury. 

Wolsey.     That's  news  indeed. 

Cromwell.  Last,  that  the  Lady  Anne, 

Whom  the  king  hath  in  secrecy  long  married, 
This  day  was  viewed  in  open,  as  his  queen, 
Going  to  chapel ;  and  the  voice  is  now 
Only  about  her  coronation. 

Wolsey.     There  was  the  weight  that  pulled  me  down.  0  Cromwell, 
The  king  has  gone  beyond  me  :  all  my  glories 
In  that  one  woman  I  have  lost  for  ever. 
No  sun  shall  ever  usher  forth  mine  honors, 
Or  gild  again  the  noble  troops  that  waited 
Upon  my  smiles.     Go,  get  thee  from  me,  CromweU  ; 
I  am  a  poor  fallen  man,  unworthy  now 
To  be  thy  lord  and  master  •  Seek  the  king ; 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  107 

That  sun,  f  pray,  may  never  set !     I  have  told  him 

What,  and  how  true  thou  art :  he  will  advance  thcc ; 

Some  little  memory  of  me  will  stir  him, 

(I  know  his  noble  nature,)  not  to  let 

Thy  hopeful  service  perish  too :  Good  Cromwell, 

Neglect  him  not :  make  use  now,  and  provide 

For  thine  own  future  s.afety.  , 

Cramwell.  0  my  lord, 

Must  I  then  leave  you  ?  must  I  needs  forego 
So  good,  so  noble,  and  so  true  a  master  ? 
Bear  witness,  all  that  have  not  hearts  of  iron, 
With  what  a  sorrow  Cromwell  leaves  his  lord. 
The  king  shall  have  my  service ;  but  my  prayers, 
For  ever,  and  for  ever  shall  be  yours. 

Wohey.     Cromwell,  I  did  not  think  to  shed  a  tear 
In  all  my  miseries ;  but  thou  hast  forced  me 
Out  of  thy  honest  truth  to  play  the  woman. 
Let's  dry  our  eyes :  and  thus  far  hear  me,  Cromwell ; 
And — when  I  am  forgotten,  as  I  shall  be; 
And  sleep  in  dull  cold  marble,  where  no  mention 
Of  me  more  must  be  heard  of — say,  I  taught  thee : 
Say,  Wolsey — that  once  trod  the  ways  of  glory, 
And  sounded  all  the  depths  and  shoals  of  honor — 
Found  thee  a  way,  out  of  his  wreck,  to  rise  in ; 
A  sure  and  safe  one,  though  thy  master  missed  it 
Mark  but  my  fall,  and  that  that  ruined  me. 
Cromwell,  I  charge  thee,  fling  away  ambition ; 
By  that  sin  fell  the  angels ;  how  can  man  then, 
The  image  of  his  Maker,  hope  to  win  by  't? 
Love  thyself  last :  cherish  those  hearts  that  hate  thee : 
Corruption  wins  not  more  than  honesty. 
Still  in  thy  right  hand  carry  gentle  peace. 
To  silence  envious  tongues.     Be  just,  and  fear  not ; 
Let  all  the  ends,  thou  aim'st  at,  be  thy  country's, 
Thy  God's,  and  truth's ;  then,  if  thou  fall'st,  0,  Cromwell, 
Thou  fall'st  a  blessed  martyr.     Serve  the  king ;  ■* 

And — Pr'ythee,  lead  me  in  : 
There  take  an  inventory  of  all  I  have. 
To  the  last  penny ;  'tis  the  king's :  my  robe, 
And  my  integrity  to  heaven,  is  all 


108  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

I  dare  now  call  mine  own.     0,  Cromwell,  Cromwell  1 
Had  I  but  served  my  God  with  half  the  zeal 
I  served  my  king,  he  would  not  in  mine  age 
Hayc  left  me  naked  to  mine  enemies. 


DIALOGUE    XXXV. 

THE  SAILOR'S  MOTHER. 

Woman. 
Sir,  for  the  love  of  God,  some  small  relief 
To  a  poor  woman ! 

Traveler. 

Whither  are  you  bound  ? 
'Tis  a  late  hour  to  travel  o'er  these  downs — 
No  house  for  miles  around  us,  and  the  way 
Dreary  and  wild.     The  evening  wind  already 
Makes  one's  teeth  chatter ;  and  the  very  sun, 
Setting  so  pale  behind  those  thin  white  clouds, 
Looks  cold.     'Twill  be  a  bitter  night ! 

Woman. 

Aye,  sir, 
*Tis  cutting  keen  !     I  smart  at  every  breath : — 
Heaven  knows  how  I  shall  reach  my  journey's  end ; 
For  the  way  is  long  before  me,  and  my  feet — 
God  help  me! — sore  with  traveling.     I  would  gladly, 
If  it  pleased  God,  at  once  lie  down  and  die. 

Traioelefr. 
Nay,  nay,  cheer  up !  a  little  food  and  rest 
Will  comfort  you  ;  and  then  your  journey's  end 
May  make  amends  for  all.     You  shake  your  head. 
And  weep.     Is  it  some  mournful  business,  then. 
That  leads  you  from  your  home  ? 

Woman. 

Sir,  I  am  gomg 
To  see  my  son  at  Plymouth  sadly  hurt 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  109 

In  the  late  action,  and  in  the  hospital 
Dying,  I  fear  me,  now. 

Traveler. 

He  yet  may  live. 
But  if  the  worst  should  chance,  why,  you  must  bear 
The  will  of  Heaven  with  patience.     Were  it  not 
Some  comfort  to  reflect  your  son  has  fallen 
Fighting  his  country's  cause?  and  for  yourself, 
You  will  not  in  unpitied  poverty 
Be  left  to  mourn  his  loss.     Your  grateful  country, 
Amid  the  triumph  of  her  victory, 
Remembers  those  who  paid  its  price  of  blood, 
And  with  a  noble  charity  relieves 
The  widow  and  the  orphan. 

Woman. 

God  reward  them  I 
God  bless  them !     It  will  help  me  in  my  age. 
But,  sir,  it  will  not  pay  me  for  my  child ) 

Traveler. 
"Was  he  your  only  child  ? 

Woman. 

My  only  one — 
The  stay  and  comfort  of  my  widowhood ! — 
A  dear  good  boy !     When  first  he  went  to  sea, 
I  felt  what  it  would  come  to : — something  told  me 
I  should  be  childless  soon.     But  tell  me,  sir, 
If  it  be  true  that  for  a  hurt  like  his 
There  is  no  cure.     Please  God  to  spare  his  life, 
Though  he  be  blind,  yet  I  should  be  so  thankful  I 
I  can  remember  there  was  a  blind  man 
Lived  in  our  village — one,  from  his  youth  up. 
Quite  dark ; — and  yet  he  was  a  merry  man ; 
And  he  had  none  to  tend  on  him  so  well 
As  I  would  tend  my  boy ! 

Traveler. 

Of  this  be  sure : 
His  hurts  are  looked  to  well ;  and  the  best  holp 
10 


no  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

The  land  affords — as  rightly  is  his  due-  - 
Ever  at  hand.     How  happened  it  he  left  you  P 
Was  a  seafaring  life  his  early  choice  ? 

Woman. 
No,  sir.  poor  fellow! — he  was  wise  enough 
To  be  content  at  home ;  and  'twas  a  home 
As  comfortable,  sir,  even  though  I  say  it. 
As  any  in  the  country.     He  was  left 
A  little  boy,  when  his  poor  father  died — 
Just  old  enough  to  totter  by  himself, 
And  call  his  mother's  name.     We  two  were  all ; 
And  as  we  were  not  left  quite  destitute, 
We  bore  up  well.     In  the  summer-time  I  worked 
Sometimes  afield.     Then  I  was  famed  for  knitting, 
And  in  long  winter  nights  my  spinning-wheel 
Seldom  stood  still.     We  had  kind  neighbors  too, 
And  never  felt  distress.     So  he  grew  up 
A  comely  lad,  and  wondrous  well  disposed. 
I  taught  him  well :  there  was  not  in  the  parish 
A  child  who  said  his  prayers  more  regular. 
Or  answered  readier  through  his  catechism. 
If  I  had  foreseen  this! — but  'tis  a  blessing 
We  don't  know  what  we're  bom  to ! 

Trmeler. 

But  how  came  it 
He  chose  to  be  a  sailor  ? 

Woman. 

You  shall  hear,  sir. 
As  he  grew  up,  he  used  to  watch  the  birds 
In  the  corn — child's  work,  you  know,  and  easily  done, 
'Tis  an  idle  sort  of  task  :  so  he  built  up 
A  little  hut  of  wicker-work  and  clay 
Under  the  hedge,  to  shelter  him  in  rain ; 
And  then  he  took,  for  very  idleness, 
To  making  traps  to  catch  the  plunderers — 
All  sorts  of  cunning  traps  that  boys  can  make — 
Propping  a  stone,  to  fall  and  shut  them  in, 
Oi  crush  them  with  its  weight — or  else  a  spring 


ENTERTAINING  DIAIOGUES.  Ill 

Swung  on  a  bough.     He  made  them  cleverly : 
And  I,  poor  foolish  woman !  I  was  pleased 
To  see  the  boy  so  handy.     You  may  guess 
What  followed,  sir,  from  this  unlucky  skill. 
He  did  what  he  should  not,  when  he  was  older 
I  warned  him  oft  enough ;  but  he  was  caught 
In  wiring  hares  at  last,  and  had  his  choice — 
The  prison  or  the  ship. 

Tra/teler. 

The  choice  at  least 
Was  kindly  left  him  ;  and  for  broken  laws 
This  was,  methinks,  no  heavy  punishment. 

Woman. 
So  I  was  told,  sir,  and  I  tried  to  think  so ; 
But  'twas  a  sad  blow  to  me.     I  was  used 
To  sleep  at  nights  as  sweetly  as  a  child : — 
Now,  if  the  wind  blew  rough,  it  made  me  start, 
And  think  of  my  poor  boy,  tossing  about 
Upon  the  roaring  seas.     And  then  I  seemed 
To  feel  that  it  was  hard  to  take  him  from  me 
For  such  a  little  fault.     But  he  was  wrong, 
0,  very  wrong — a  murrain  on  his  traps ! 
See  what  they've  brought  him  to ! 

Traveler. 

Well !  well !  take  comfort ; 
He  will  be  taken  care  of,  if  he  lives  ; 
And  should  you  lose  your  child,  this  is  a  country 
Where  the  brave  sailor  never  leaves  a  parent 
To  weep  for  him  in  want 

Woman. 

Sir,  I  shall  want 
No  succor  long.     In  the  common  course  of  years, 
I  soon  must  be  at  rest ;  and  'tis  a  comfort, 
When  grief  is  hard  upon  me,  to  reflect 
It  only  leads  me  to  that  rest  the  sooner. 


112  ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES. 

DIALOGUE    XXXVI. 

THE  STOEY.* 

Joseph,  Samuel,  Rebekah,  and  three  or  four  others. 


Have  we  not  had  "  Button-Button  "  enough, 
And  "Forfeits,"  and  all  such  silly  stuff? 

Samuel. 
Well,  we  were  playing  "  Blind-Man's-Buff " 
Until  you  fell,  and  rose  in  a  huff. 
And  declared  the  game  was  too  rude  and  rough. 
Poor  boy !     What  a  pity  he  isn't  tough ! 

All. 
Ha !  ha !  ha !  what  a  pretty  boy ! 
Papa's  delight,  and  mamma's  joy  I 
Wouldn't  he  like  to  go  to  bed. 
And  have  a  cabbage-leaf  on  his  head  ? 

Joseph. 
Laugh,  if  you  like  to !     Laugh  till  you're  gray; 
But  I  guess  you'd  laugh  another  way 
If  you'd  hit  your  toe,  and  fallen  like  me, 
And  cut  a  bloody  gash  in  your  knee, 
And  bumped  your  nose,  and  bruised  your  shin, 
Tumbling  over  the  rolling-pin 
That  rolled  to  the  floor  in  the  awful  din 
That  followed  the  fall  of  the  row  of  tin 
That  stood  upon  the  dresser. 

Samuel. 
Guess  again — dear  little  guesser ! 
You  wouldn't  catch  this  boy  lopping  his  wing, 
Or  whining  over  any  thing. 
So  stir  your  stumps, 
Forget  your  bumps, 
Get  out  of  your  dumps, 

♦From  the  Second  Episode  of  "Bitter-Sweet." 


BNTERTAININGr  DIALOGUES.  118 

And  up  and  at  it  again  ; 
For  the  clock  is  striking  ten, 
And  Ruth  will  come  pretty  soon  and  say, 
"  Go  to  your  beds 
You  sleepy  heads !  " 
So— quick  1     What  shall  wo  plaf  ? 

I  wouldn't  play  any  more, 
For  Joseph  is  tired  and  sore 
With  his  fall  upon  the  floor. 

All. 
Then  he  shall  tell  a  story. 

Joseph. 
About  old  Mother  Morey? 

All. 
No  1     Tell  us  another. 

Joseph. 
About  my  brother? 

Rebelcah. 

Now,  Joseph,  you  shall  be  good, 

And  do  as  you'd  be  done  by; 

We  didn't  mean  to  be  rude 

When  you  fell  and  began  to  cry ; 

We  wanted  to  make  you  forget  your  pain  ; 

But  it  frets  you,  and  we'll  not  laugh  again. 

Joseph. 

Well,  if  you'll  all  sit  still, 
And  not  be  frisking  about. 
Nor  utter  a  whisper  till 
You've  heard  my  story  out, 
ni  tell  you  a  tale  as  weird 
As  ever  you  heard  in  your  lives. 
Of  a  man  with  a  long  blue  beard, 
And  the  way  he  treated  his  wives. 

10* 


1X4  ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES. 

All 

Oh,  that  will  be  nice ! 
We'll  be  still  as  mice. 

Joseph. 

{Relates  the  old  story  of  Blue  Beard.) 

Centuries  since,  there  flourished  a  man, 
(A  cruel  old  Tartar,  as  rich  as  the  Khan,) 
Whose  castle  was  built  on  a  splendid  plan. 

With  gardens  and  groves  and  plantations ; 
But  his  shaggy  beard  was  as  blue  as  the  sky, 
And  he  lived  alone,  for  his  neighbors  were  shy 
And  had  heard  hard  stories,  by  the  by. 

About  his  domestic  relations. 

Just  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  plain 

A  widow  abode,  with  her  daughters  twain ; 

And  one  of  them — neither  cross  nor  vain — 

Was  a  beautiful  little  treasure ; 
So  he  sent  them  an  invitation  to  tea, 
And  having  a  natural  wish  to  see 
His  wonderful  castle  and  gardens,  all  three 

Said  they'd  do  themselves  the  pleasuro. 

As  soon  as  there  happened  a  pleasant  day. 
They  dressed  themselves  in  a  sumptuous  way 
And  rode  to  the  castle  as  proud  and  gay 

As  silks  and  jewels  could  make  them ; 
And  they  were  received  in  the  finest  style, 
And  saw  every  thing  that  was  worth  their  while, 
In  the  halls  of  Blue  Beard's  grand  old  pile, 

Where  he  was  so  kind  as  to  take  them. 

The  ladies  were  all  enchanted  quite  ; 
For  they  found  old  Blue  Beard  so  polite 
That  they  did  not  suffer  at  all  from  fright, 

And  frequently  called  thereafter ; 
Then  he  offered  to  marry  the  younger  one, 
And  as  she  was  willing  the  thing  was  done, 
And  celebrated  by  all  the  ton 

With  feasting  and  with  laughter. 


ENTEUTAINING  DIALOGUES.  115 

As  kind  a  husband  as  ever  was  seen 

Was  Blue  Beard  then,  for  a  month,  T  ween  1 

And  she  was  as  proud  ats  any  queen, 

And  as  happy  as  she  could  be,  too ; 
But  her  husband  called  her  to  him  one  day, 
And  said,  "  My  dear,  I  am  going  away ; 
It  will  not  be  long  that  I  shall  stay ; 

There  is  business  for  me  to  see  to. 

"  The  keys  of  my  castle  I  leave  with  you  ; 

But  if  you  value  my  love,  be  true, 

And  forbear  to  enter  the  Chamber  of  Blue ! 

Farewell,  Fatima !     Remember !  " 
Fatima  promised  him  ;  then  she  ran 
To  visit  the  rooms  with  her  sister  Ann ; 
But  when  she  had  finished  the  tour,  she  began 

To  think  about  the  Blue  Chamber. 

Well,  the  woman  was  curiously  inclined. 
So  she  left  her  sister  and  prudence  behind. 
(With  a  little  excuse)  and  started  to  find 

The  mystery  forbidden. 
She  paused  at  the  door ; — all  was  still  as  night! 
She  opened  it :  then  through  the  dim,  blue  light 
There  blistered  her  vision  the  horrible  sight 

That  was  in  that  chamber  hidden. 

The  room  was  gloomy  and  damp  and  wide, 
And  the  floor  was  red  with  the  bloody  tide 
From  headless  women,  laid  side  by  side, 

The  wives  of  her  lord  and  master ! 
Frightened  and  fainting,  she  dropped  the  key, 
But  seized  it  and  lifted  it  quickly ;  then  sho 
Hurried  as  swiftly  as  she  could  flee 

From  the  scene  of  the  disaster. 

She  tried  to  forget  the  terrible  dead, 

But  shrieked  when  she  saw  the  key  was  red. 

And  sickened  and  shook  with  an  awful  dread 


116  ENTERTAINING  1>IAL0GUES. 

When  she  heard  Blue  Beard  was  coming. 
He  did  not  appear  to  notice  her  pain ; 
But  he  took  his  keys,  and  seeing  the  stain. 
He  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  refrain 

That  he  had  been  quietly  humming. 

"  Mighty  well,  madam  !  "  said  he,  "  mighty  well  I 

What  does  this  little  blood-stain  tell  ? 

You've  broken  your  promise;  prepare  to  dwell 

With  the  wives  I've  had  before  you ! 
You've  broken  your  promise,  and  you  shall  die." 
Then  Fatima,  supposing  her  death  was  nigh, 
Fell  on  her  knees  and  began  to  cry, 

"  Have  mercy,  I  implore  you !  " 

"No!  "  shouted  Blue  Beard,  drawing  his  sword; 
"  You  shall  die  this  very  minute,"  he  roared. 
"  Grant  me  time  to  prepare  to  meet  my  Lord,** 
The  terrified  woman  entreated. 
"Only  ten  minutes,"  he  roared  again ; 
And  holding  his  watch  by  its  great  gold  chain, 
He  marked  on  the  dial  the  fatal  ten. 
And  retired  till  they  were  completed. 

"  Sister,  oh,  sister,  fly  up  to  the  tower ! 
Look  for  release  from  this  murderer's  power ! 
Our  brothers  should  be  here  this  very  hour ; — 

Speak !     Does  there  come  assistance  ?  " 
*'  No :  I  see  nothing  but  sheep  on  the  hill." 
"Look  again,  sister!  "     "I'm  looking  still, 
But  naught  can  I  see,  whether  good  or  ill, 

Save  a  flurry  of  dust  in  the  distance." 

"  Time's  up !  "  shouted  Blue  Beard,  out  from  his  room; 
"This  moment  shall  witness  your  terrible  doom. 
And  give  you  a  dwelling  within  the  room 

Whose  secrets  you  have  invaded." 
**  Comes  there  no  help  for  my  terrible  need  ?  " 
"  There  are  horsemen  twain  riding  hither  with  speed.** 
"  Oh !  tell  them  to  ride  very  fast  indeed. 
Or  I  must  meet  death  unaided." 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  117 

"  Time's  fully  up !     Now  have  done  with  your  prayer," 
Shouted  Blue  Beard,  swinging  his  sword  on  the  stair; 
Then  he  entered,  and  grasping  her  beautiful  hair. 

Swung  his  glittering  weapon  around  him  ; 
But  a  loud  knock  rang  at  the  castle-gate. 
And  Fatima  was  saved  from  her  horrible  fate, 
For,  shocked  with  surprise,  he  paused  too  late ; 

And  t^fn  the  two  soldiers  found  him. 

They  were  her  brothers,  and  quick  as  they  knew 
What  the  fiend  was  doing  their  swords  they  drew, 
And  attacked  him  fiercely,  and  ran  him  through, 

So  that  soon  he  was  mortally  wounded. 
With  a  wild  remorse  was  his  conscience  filled 
When  he  thought  of  the  hapless  wives  he  had  killed ; 
Bnt  quickly  the  last  of  his  blood  was  spilled, 

And  his  dying  groan  was  sounded. 

As  soon  as  Fatima  recovered  from  fright, 
She  embraced  her  brothers  with  great  delight; 
And  they  were  as  glad  and  as  grateful  quite 

As  she  was  glad  and  grateful. 
Then  they  all  went  out  from  that  scene  of  pam, 
And  sought  in  quietude  to  regain 
Their  minds,  which  had  come  to  be  quite  insane, 

In  a  place  so  horrid  and  hateful. 

'Twas  a  private  funeral  Blue  Beard  had ; 

For  the  people  knew  he  was  very  bad, 

And,  though  they  said  nothing,  they  all  were  glad 

For  the  fall  of  the  evil-doer ; 
But  Fatima  first  ordered  some  graves  to  be  made, 
And  there  the  unfortunate  ladies  were  laid, 
And  after  some  painful  months,  with  the  aid 

Of  her  friends,  her  spirits  came  to  her. 

Then  she  cheered  the  hearts  of  the  suflfering  poor, 
And  an  acre  of  land  around  each  door. 
And  a  cow  and  a  couple  of  sheep,  or  more, 


118  ENTERTAINING     DIALOCJUES. 

To  her  tenantry  she  granted. 
So  all  of  them  had  enough  to  eat, 
And  their  love  for  her  was  so  complete 
They  would  kiss  the  dust  from  her  httle  feet, 

Or  do  any  thing  she  wanted. 

Samuel, 
Capital  I     Capital  1     Wasn't  it  good  I 
I  should  like  to  have  been  her  brother  ; 
If  I  had  been  one,  you  may  guess  there  would 
Have  been  Httle  work  for  the  other. 
I'd  have  run  him  right  through  the  heart,  just  so  ! 
And  cut  pflf  his  head  at  a  single  blow, 
And  killed  him  so  quickly  he'd  never  know 
What  it  was  that  struck  him,  wouldn't  I,  Joe? 

Joseph. 
You  are  very  brave  with  your  bragging  tongue ; 
But  if  you  had  been  there,  you'd  have  sung 

A  very  different  tune. 
Poor  Blue  Beard  1     He  would  have  been  afraid 
-  Of  a  httle  boy  with  a  penknife  blade, 
Or  a  tiny  pewter  spoon ! 

Samuel. 
It  makes  no  difference  what  you  say, 
(Pretty  little  boy,  afraid  to  play !) 
But  it  served  him  rightly  any  way, 

And  gave  him  just  his  due. 
And  wasn't  it  good  that  his  little  wife 
Should  hve  in  his  castle  the  rest  of  her  lifia^ 

And  have  all  his  money  too  ? 

Rebehah. 
I'm  thinking  of  the  ladies  who 
Were  lying  in  the  Chamber  Blue, 
With  all  their  small  necks  cut  in  two. 

I  see  them  lying,  half  a  score, 
In  a  long  row  upon  the  floor, 
Their  cold,  white  bosoms  marked  with  gorei 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  119 

I  know  the  sweet  Fatima  would 
Have  put  their  heads  on  if  she  could ; 
And  made  them  live — she  was  so  good ; 

And  washed  their  faces  at  the  sink ; 
But  Blue  Beard  was  not  sane,  I  think : 
I  wonder  if  he  did  not  drink ! 

For  no  man  in  his  proper  mind 

Would  be  so  cruelly  inclined 

As  to  kill  the  ladies  who  were  kind. 


DIALOGUE    XXXVII. 

THE  CHURCH-YARD. 

First  Voice. 
How  frightful  the  grave !  how  deserted  and  drear  1 
With  the  howls  of  the  storm-wind — the  creaks  of  the  bioT, 
And  the  white  bones  all  clattering  together ! 

Second   Voice. 
How  peaceful  the  grave !  its  quiet  how  deep  : 
Its  zephyrs  breathe  calmly,  and  soft  is  its  sleep, 
And  flowerets  perfume  it  with  ether. 

First  Voice. 
There  riots  the  blood-crested  worm  on  the  dead, 
And  the  yellow  skuIi  serves  the  foul  toad  for  a  bed, 
And  snakes  in  its  nettle-weeds  hiss. 

Second   Voice. 
How  lovely,  how  sweet  the  repose  of  the  tomb : 
No  tempests  are  there : — but  the  nightingales  come 
And  sing  their  sweet  chorus  of  bliss. 

First   Voice. 
The  ravens  of  night  flap  their  wings  o'er  the  grave : 
Tis  the  vulture's  abode ; — 'tis  the  wolfs  dreary  cave. 
Where  they  tear  up  the  earth  with  their  fangs. 


120  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Second  Voice. 

There  the  cony  at  evening  disports  with  his  love. 
Or  rests  on  the  sod ; — while  the  turtles  above 
Repose  on  the  bough  that  o'erhangs. 

First  Voice. 

There  darkness  and  dampness  with  poisonous  breathy 
And  loathsome  decay,  fill  the  dwelling  of  death ; 
The  trees  are  all  barren  and  bare ! 

Second  Voice. 

0,  soft  are  the  breezes  that  play  'round  the  tomb, 
And  sweet  with  the  violet's  wafted  perfume, 
With  lilies  and  jessamine  fair. 

First   Voice. 

The  pilgrim  who  reaches  this  valley  of  tears, 
"Would  fain  hurry  by,  and  with  trembling  and  fears, 
He  is  launched  on  the  wreck-covered  river  1 

Second  Voice. 

.    The  traveler,  outworn  with  life's  pilgrimage  dreary, 
Lays  down  his  rude  staflf,  like  one  that  is  weary, 
And  sweetly  reposes  forever. 


DIALOGUE    XXXVIII. 

WHAT  WE  LOVE. 

Mary,  Ellen,  Charles,  and  Alfred 


I  love  the  spring,  the  gentle  spring ; 

I  love  its  balmy  air — 
I  love  its  showers,  that  ever  bring 

To  us  the  flow'rots  fair. 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  121 

All* 

Come,  let  us  sing,  we  love  the  spring — 

We  love  the  summer  too — 
While  autumn's  fruit  each  one  will  suit, 

To  winter  give  his  due. 

JSllen. 

I  love  the  summer's  sky,  so  bright ;  ' 

I  love  the  fragrant  flowers ; 
I  love  the  long,  long  days  of  light ; 

But  more  the  shady  bowers. 

All 
Gome,  let  us  sing,  we  love  the  spring,  &G. 

Charles. 

I  love  the  autumn's  clust'ring  fruit. 

That  in  the  orchard  lies ; 
I  love  its  ever-changing  suit. 

Its  trees  of  brilliant  dyes. 

All. 
Come,  let  us  sing,  we  love  the  spring,  Ac. 
Alfred. 

I  love  stem  winter's  ice  and  snow ; 

I  love  his  blazing  fire ; — 
I  love  his  winds  that  freshly  blow — 

Yes,  winter  I  desire. 

All. 
Come,  let  us  sing,  we  love  the  spring,  Aa 
Mary. 

I  love  the  merry  birds,  that  sing, 

So  sweet,  their  morning  song — 
I  love  to  see  them  on  the  wing 

Speed  gracefully  along. 


•To  be  aung. 
]1 


122  ENTERTAINING  LIALOGUEfi. 

All 
Yes,  we  will  love  the  gentle  dove — 

The  birds  that  sing  so  sweet, 
The  fishes  all,  and  insects  small, 

The  beasts  we  daily  meet 

Ellm. 
I  love  beneath  the  limpid  wave 

To  see  the  fishes  glide ; 
I  love  to  watch  them  as  they  lave 

So  gayly  in  the  tide. 

All 
Yes,  we  will  love  the  gentle  dove,  &a 

Charles. 
I  love  each  prancing,  noble  steed ; 

I  love  the  dog,  so  true ; 
I  love  the  gentle  cow  ;  indeed. 
Without,  what  could  we  do  ? 

All 
Yes,  we  will  love  the  gentle  dove,  ke, 
Alfred. 

I  love  the  little  busy  bee ; 

I  love  the  patient  ant : 
For  they  this  lesson  teach  to  me — 

"We  need  not  ever  want." 

All 

Yes,  we  will  love  the  gentle  dove,  &a 

Man'y. 
I  love  the  blue  and  far-off  sky ; 

I  love  the  beaming  sun  ; 
The  moon  and  stars,  that,  up  on  high. 

Shine  bright  when  day  is  done. 

All 
We  love,  on  high,  to  see  the  sky ; 

We  love  the  broad,  blue  sea ; 
We  love  the  earth,  that  gave  us  birth ; 

We  love  the  air,  so  free. 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  123 

Ellen. 

I  love  the  very  air  we  breathe ; 

I  love,  when  flow'rets  bloom, 
At  early  morn,  or  dewy  eve, 

To  inhale  the  sweet  perfume. 

All 

We  love,  on  high,  to  see  the  sky,  &a 

Charles. 
I  love  the  ocean,  vast  and  grand ; 

I  love  to  hear  its  roar — 
I  love  its  waves  that  kiss  the  sand. 

And  those  that  proudly  soar. 

All. 
We  love,  on  high,  to  see  the  sky,  &c. 

Alfred. 
I  love  the  broad  and  fruitful  earth  ; 

I  love  each  hill  and  dale ; 
I  love  the  spot  that  gave  me  birth — 
My  own  dear  native  vale  1 

All. 
We  love,  on  high,  to  see  the  sky,  &c. 


I  love  my  father,  ever  kind ; 

I  love  to  meet  his  smile — 
I  love  to  see  him  pleasure  find 

In  watching  me  the  while. 

All. 
Our  firiends  are  dear,  that  we  have  here, 

But,  better  far  than  all, 
There's  one  we  love,  who  dwells  above, 

And  on  His  name  we  call. 
Ellen. 
I  love  full  well  my  mother  dear ; 

I  love  her  cheering  voice — 
Her  gentle  words  I  wait  to  hear— 

They  make  my  heart  rejoice  * 


124  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

All. 
Our  friends  are  dear,  tkat  we  have  here,  4c 

Charles. 

I  love  my  little  brother  sweet ; 

I  love  his  words  of  glee — 
I  love  his  playfiil  glance  to  meet, 

His  beaming  smile  to  see. 

All. 
Our  friends  are  dear,  that  we  have  here,  &c. 

Alfred. 

I  love  my  little  sister  fair  ; 

I  love  her  rosy  cheek — 
I  love  with  her  each  joy  to  share, 

Her  happiness  to  seek. 

All. 
Our  friends  are  dear,  that  we  have  here,  &c. 


DIALOGUE    XXXIX. 

THE  LAND  OF  GOLD.* 

First  Voice. 

Dost  thou  know  that  bright  land  in  the  far  distant  West, 
Where  the  sun  in  his  splendor,  o'er  mountains  of  gold, 

Casts  his  beams  as  at  evening  he  sinks  to  his  rest, 
And  the  sands  in  each  river  hide  treasures  untold ! 

Second  Voice. 

Ah !  I  know — I  have  seen — and  the  desolate  hearth 
Bears  me  witness  how  strong  the  allurement  has  been ; 

When  the  home,  once  so  happy,  is  left  for  the  path 
That  shall  lead,  must  I  say,  but  to  sorrow  or  sin. 

■  Written  by  one  who  had  lo^  t  a  Vjrotber  on  his  route  to  California. 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  125 

Both  Voices* 
Oh !  home,  give  us  home,  though  our  dtjstiny  lies 

In  a  happy  estate,  or  in  trouble  and  care ; 
Oh  1  home,  give  us  home,  with  the  friends  that  we  prize, 

All  our  sorrows  to  comfort,  our  pleasures  to  share. 

First   Voice. 
But  the  land,  it  is  pleasant,  the  grove  and  the  plain, 

With  the  murmuring  rill  and  the  beautiful  vale : 
Call  they  not  in  an  accent  that  never  in  vain 

Calls  the  eye  to  the  lovely — though  gold  it  should  fail 

Second  Voice. 
Yes,  I  know,  and  the  desert  wide  open  to  view 

Shows  the  dead  and  the  dying — the  wild  torrent  roars, 
In  its  tide,  bears  the  loved  one — his  struggles  are  through. 

And  his  soul  to  the  mansion  of  happiness  soars. 

Both  Voices. 
Oh !  home,  give  us  home,  though  our  destiny  lies 

In  a  happy  estate,  or  in  trouble  and  care ; 
Oh  !  home,  give  us  home,  with  the  friends  that  we  prize, 

All  our  sorrows  to  comfort,  our  pleasures  to  share. 

First  Voice. 
Yet  I  see  in  the  eye  of  the  fortunate  one,        • 

As  it  falls  on  the  riches  his  labors  have  gained, 
The  proud,  satisfied  glance,  that  success  can  alone 

Give  his  eye,  who  in  danger  and  hardship  has  strained. 

Second   Voice. 
I  have  seen  the  sad  tear  in  the  father's  stem  eye, 

And  the  mother  in  bitterness  weep  for  her  son ; 
The  fond  wife  mourn  a  husband — heard  the  orphan's  lone  ciy, 

But  all  mourning  is  vain,  for  the  evil  is  done. 

Both  Voices. 
Oh !  home,  give  us  home,  though  our  destiny  lies 

In  a  happy  estate,  or  in  trouble  and  care ; 
Oh !  home,  give  us  home,  with  the  friends  that  we  prize, 

All  our  sorrows  to  comfort,  our  pleasures  to  share. 

*  This  part  may  be  simg. 
11* 


126  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

DIALOGUE    XL. 

THE  WATCHER  ON  THE  TOWER 

Traveler. 

What  dost  thou  see,  lone  watcher  on  the  tower? 
Is  the  day  breaking?  comes  the  wished-for  hour? 
Tell  us  the  signs,  and  stretch  abroad  thy  hand, 
If  the  bright  morning  dawns  upon  the  land. 

Watcher. 

The  stars  are  clear  above  me — ^scarcely  one 

Has  dimmed  its  rays  in  reverence  to  the  sun ; 

But  lo !  I  see  on  the  horizon's  verge 

Some  fair,  faint  streaks,  as  if  the  light  would  surge. 

Traveler. 

Look  forth  again,  0  !  watcher  on  the  tower — 
The  people  wake  and  languish  for  the  hour ; 
Long  have  they  dwelt  in  darkness,  and  they  pine 
For  the  full  daylight  that  they  know  must  shine. 

Watcher. 

• 

I  see  not  well — the  morn  is  cloudy  still ; 
There  is  no  radiance  on  the  distant  hill — 
Even  as  I  watch  the  glory  seems  to  glow ; 
But  the  stars  blink,  and  the  night-breezes  blow. 

Traveler. 


Look  forth  again ;  it  must  be  near  the  hour. 
Dost  thou  not  see  the  snowy  mountain-copes, 
And  the  green  beneath  them  on  the  slopes  ? 

Watcher. 

A  mist  envelopes  them :  I  can  not  trace 
Their  outline ;  but  the  day  comes  on  apace, 
The  clouds  roll  up  in  gold  and  amber  flakes, 
And  all  the  !»tars  grow  dim.     The  morning  breaks  I 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  127 

Traveler. 

We  thank  thee,  lonely  watcher  on  the  tower ; 
But  look  again,  and  tell  us,  hour  by  hour, 
All  thou  beholdest ;  many  of  us  die 
Ere  the  day  comes ;  Oh  1  give  them  a  reply. 

Watcher. 

I  see  the  hill- tops  now ;  and  chanticleer 
Crows  his  prophetic  carol  on  my  ear ; 
I  see  the  distant  woods,  and  fields  of  com, 
And  ocean  gleaming  in  the  light  of  mom. 

Traveler. 

Again,  again,  0 1  watcher  on  the  tower — 
We  thirst  for  daylight,  and  we  bide  the  hour, 
Patient  but  longing.     Tell  us,  shall  it  be 
A  bright,  calm,  glorious  daylight  for  the  free? 

Watcher. 
I  hope,  but  can  not  tell.     I  hear  a  song, 
Vivid  as  day  itself,  and  clear  and  strong 
As  of  a  lark — young  prophet  of  the  noon, 
Pouring  in  sunlight  his  seraphic  tune. 

TroAjeler. 

What  doth  he  say,  0 !  watcher  on  the  tower  ? 
Is  he  a  prophet  ?    Doth  the  dawning  hour 
Inspire  his  music  ?     Is  his  chant  sublime 
With  the  full  glories  of  the  coming  time  ? 

Watcher.  .    • 

iJe  prophesies — his  heart  is  full — his  lay 
Tells  of  the  brightness  of  a  peaceful  day ! 
A  day  not  cloudless,  nor  devoid  of  storm, 
But  sunny  for  the  most,  and  clear  and  warm. 

Traveler. 

We  thank  thee,  watcher  on  the  loneiy  tower, 
For  all  thou  tellest.     Sings  he  of  an  hour 
When  error  shall  decay,  and  truth  grow  strong ; 
When  right  shall  rule  supreme,  and  vanquish  wrong  ? 


128  ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES. 

Watcher. 
He  sings  of  brotherhood,  and  joy,  and  peace ; 
Of  days  when  jealousies  and  hate  shall  cease ; 
When  war  shall  die,  and  man's  progressive  mind 
Soar  as  unfettered  as  its  God  designed. 

Traveler. 

Well  done !  thou  watcher  on  the  lonely  tower  I 
Is  the  day  breaking?  dawns  the  happy  hour? 
We  pine  to  see  it      Tell  us  yet  again, 
If  the  broad  daylight  breaks  upon  the  plain  ? 

Watcher. 

It  breaks — it  comes — the  misty  shadows  fly — 
A  rosy  radiance  gleams  upon  the  sky ; 
The  mountain-tops  reflect  it  calm  and  clear ; 
111% plain  is  yet  in  ahade^  but  day  is  near! 


DIALOGUE    XLI. 

SUNRISE  AND  SUNSET. 
'  At  evening-time  it  shall  be  ligKt." 

First  Voice. 

How  beautiful  is  morning, 
.    •  The  childhood  of  the  day ; 

Fair  as  an  infant's  smiling 
Beams  its  first  rosy  ray. 
How  pure  and  sweet  the  flowers, 

Its  holy  dews  have  kissed ; 
How  gorgeoi  .5  are  its  cloudlets 
Of  gold  and  amethyst. 
Oh !  then,  earth,  air,  and  sky  with  music  ring, 
And  like  the  lark,  our  souls  at  heaven's  gate  sing. 
Such  be  the  morning  of  thy  life's  young  day, 
Without  a  care  to  dim  its  rosj'  ray. 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  129 

Second  Voice. 
But  morn,  sweet  morn,  must  vanish ; 

The  sun  ascendeth  higher ; 
The  purple  clouds  are  scattered 

Before  his  glance  of  fire ; 
The  flowers  bend  pale  and  drooping, 

Robbed  of  their  pearly  dew ; 
No  lark's  glad  song  is  thrilling 
Yon  sky  of  burning  blue. 
ThcE  comes  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day, 
Then  must  we  toil  beneath  the  scorching  ray. 
Toil  bravely  on,  with  patient,  willing  feet, 
For  there  remaineth  yet  a  rest  more  sweet. 

Third  Voice. 
Then,  lovelier  than  the  morning, 

With  soft  and  rosy  ray, 
Shall  come  the  peaceful  evening, 
To  crown  the  well-spent  day. 
As  balmy  are  the  blossoms 

Its  holy  dews  have  kissed  ; 
As  rich  its  sunset-glories 
Of  gold  and  amethyst. 
Then  is  the  time  to  rest :  'neath  angel-wings 
To  slumber  safe,  till  a  new  morning  springs. 
Thus  beauteous  be  thy  life's  declining  ray, 
Thus  may  est  thou  sleep,  and  wake  to  endless  day. 


DIALOGUE    XLII. 

THE  DRUNKARD  AND  HIS  FRIENf 

Friend. 
Pray,  Mr.  Dram-drinker,  how  do  you  do  ? 
What  in  perdition's  the  matter  with  you? 
How  did  you  come  by  that  bruise  on  the  head ; 
Why  are  your  eyes  so  infernally  red  ? 
Why  do  you  mutter  that  infidel  hymn? 
Why  do  you  tremble  in  every  limb? 
Who  has  done  this? — let  the  reason  be  shown, 
And  let  the  offender  be  pelted  with  stone. 


130  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Drunkard. 

I  had  a  father ; — the  grave  is  his  bed : 

I  had  a  mother ;  she  sleeps  with  the  dead. 

Truly  I  wept  when  they  left  me  alone ; 

But  I  shed  all  my  tears  on  their  grave  and  their  stona 

I  planted  a  willow,  I  planted  a  yew, 

And  left  them  to  sleep  till  the  last  trumpet  blew. 

Fortune  was  mine ;  I  mounted  her  car — 

Pleasure  from  virtue  had  beckoned  me  far. 

Onward  I  went,  like  an  avalanche,  down, 

And  the  sunshine  of  fortune  was  changed  to  a  frown. 

Fortune  was  gone,  and  I  took  to  my  side 
A  young,  and  a  lovely,  and  beautiful  bride ! 
Her  I  entreated  with  coldness  and  scorn — 
Tarrying  back  till  the  break  of  the  morn  ; 
Slighting  her  kindness,  and  mocking  her  fears — 
Casting  a  blight  on  her  tenderest  years ! 
Sad,  and  neglected,  and  weary  I  left  her: 
Sorrow  and  care  of  her  reason  bereft  her  ; 
Till,  like  a  star,  when  it  falls  from  its  pride, 
She  sunk  on  the  bosom  of  misery,  and  died. 

I  had  a  child,  and  it  grew  like  a  vine ; — 
Fair  as  the  rose  of  Damascus  was  mine : 
Fair — and  I  watched  over  her  innocent  youth, 
As  an  angel  of  heaven  would  watch  over  truth. 
She  grew  like  her  mother,  in  feature  and  form ; 
Her  blue  eye  was  languid,  her  cheek  was  too  warm. 
Seventeen  summers  had  shone  on  her  brow — 
The  seventeenth  winter  beheld  her  laid  low ! 
Yonder  they  sleep  in  their  graves,  side  by  side— 
A  father,  a  mother,  a  daughter,  a  bride. 

Go  to  your  children,  and  tell  them  the  tale : 

Tell  them  his  cheek,  too,  was  lividly  pale ; 

Tell  them  his  eye  was  bloodshot  and  cold ; 

Tell  them  his  purse  was  a  stranger  to  gold ; 

Tell  them  he  passed  through  the  world  they  are  in 

The  victim  of  sorrow,  and  misery,  and  sin ; 

Tell  them,  when  life's  shameful  conflicts  were  passed, 

fn  horror  and  anguish  he  perished  at  last. 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  IHl 

DIALOGUE    XLIII. 

PEDANTRY. 

Dion,  a  mathematician;  Trill,  a  musician;  Sesquipedalia,  a  itn- 
guist  and  philosopher ;  Dkone,  a  servant  of  Mr.  Mon'ell^  in 
whose  house  the  scene  is  laid. 

Digit.  (Alone.)  If  theologians  are  in  want  of  a  proof 
that  mankind  are  daily  degenerating,  let  them  apply  to 
me,  Archimedes  Digit.  I  can  furnish  them  with  one  as 
clear  as  any  demonstration  in  Euclid's  third  or  fifth  book; 
and  it  is  this — the  sublime  and  exalted  science  of  Mathe- 
matics is  falling  into  general  disuse.  Oh !  that  the  patri- 
otic inhabitants  of  this  extensive  country  should  suffer 
so  degrading  a  circumstance  to  exist!  Why,  yesterday, 
I  asked  a  lad  of  fifteen  which  he  preferred.  Algebra  or 
Geometry;  and  he  told  me — oh,  horrible  I  he  told  me 
he  had  never  studied  them  1  I  was  thunderstruck,  I  was 
astonished,  I  was  petrified !  Never  studied  Geometry  I 
never  studied  Algebra  I  and  fifteen  years  old  !  The  dark 
ages  are  returning.  Heathenish  obscurity  will  soon  over- 
whelm the  world,  unless  I  do  something  immediately  to 
enlighten  it ;  and  for  this  purpose  I  have  now  applied  to 
Mr.  Morrell,  who  lives  here,  and  is  celebrated  for  nis  pat 
ronage  of  learning  and  learned  men.  {A  knock  at  th/>. 
door.)     Who  waits  there  ? 

(Enter  Drone.) 

Is  Mr.  Morrell  at  home  ? 

Drone.  {Speaking  very  slow.)  Can't  say ;  s'pose  he  is ; 
indeed,  I  am  sure  he  is,  or  was  just  now. 

Digit.  Why,  I  could  solve  an  equation  while  you  arc 
answering  a  question  of  five  words — I  mean  if  the  uii- 
known  terms  were  all  on  one  side  of  the  equation.  Can 
I  see  him  ? 

Drone.  There  is  nobody  in  this  house  by  the  name  of 
Quation. 

Digit.  {Aside.)  Now,  here's  a  fellow  that  can  not  dis- 
tinguish between  an  algebraic  term  and  the  denomination 


132  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

of  Lis  master ! — I  wish  to  see  Mr.  Morrell  upon  an  affair 
of  infinite  importance. 

Drone.  Oh,  very  likely,  sir.  I  will  inform  him  that 
Mr.  Quation  wishes  to  see  him  {mindcking)  npon  an  affair 
of  infinite  importance. 

Digit     No,  no.     Digit — Digit.     My  name  is  Digit. 

Drone.  Oh,  Mr.  Digy-Digy!  Yqxj  likely.  {Exit 
Drone.) 

Digit.  {Alone.)  That  fellow  is  certainly  a  negative 
quantity.  He  is  minus  common  sense.  If  this  Mr.  Mor- 
rell is  the  man  I  take  him  to  be,  he  can  not  but  patronize 
my  talents.  Should  he  not,  I  don't  know  how  I  shall 
obtain  a  new  coat.  I  have  worn  this  ever  since  I  began 
to  write  my  theory  of  sines  and  cotangents;  and  my  el- 
bows have  so  often  formed  right  angles  with  the  plane 
surface  of  my  table,  that  a  new  coat  or  a  parallel  patch  is 
very  necessary.     But  here  comes  Mr.  Morrell. 

{Enter  Sesquip^dalia.) 

Sir  {bowing  hu\)  I  am  your  most  mathematical  servant. 
I  am  sorry,  sir,  to  give  you  this  trouble ;  but  an  affair  of 
consequence — {pulling  the  rags  over  his  elbows) — an  affair 
of  consequence,  as  vour  sci-vant  informed  you 

Sesquipedalia.  &rvus  non  est  mihi  Domine ;  that  is,  I 
have  no  servant,  sir.  I  presume  you  have  erred  in  your 
calculation ;  and 

Digit.  No,  sir.  The  calculations  I  am  about  to  pre- 
sent you  are  founded  On  the  most  correct  theorems  of 
Euclid.  You  may  examine  them,  if  you  please.  They 
are  contained  in  this  small  manuscript.  {Producing  a 
folio.) 

Sesquipedalia.  Sir,  you  have  bestowed  a  degree  of  in- 
terruption upon  my  observations.  I  was  about,  or,  ac- 
cording to  the  Latins,  futurus  sum^  to  give  you  a  little 
information  concerning  the  luminary  who  appears  to  have 
deceived  your  vision.  My  name,  sir,  is  Tullius  Marc 
I'itus  Crispus  Sesquipedalia ;  by  profession  a  linguist  and 
philosopher.  The  most  abstruse  points  in  physics  or 
metaphysics  are  to  me  transparent  as  ether.  I  have 
come  to  this  house  for  the  purpose  of  obtaining  the  pat- 
ronage of   a  gentleman   who  befriends  all  the  literati 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  133 

Now,  sir,  perhaps  I  have  induced  conviction  in  mente  tua^ 
that  is,  in  your  mind,  that  jour  calculation  was  erroneous 

Digit.  Yes,  sir,  as  to  your  person,  I  was  mistaken; 
but  my  calculations,  I  maintain,  are  correct,  to  the  tenth 
part  of  a  circulating  decimal. 

Sesqnipcdalia.  But  what  is  the  subject  of  your  manu- 
script? Have  you  discussed  the  infinite  divisibility  of 
matter? 

Digii.  No,  sir;  I  can  not  reckon  infinity ;  and  I  have 
nothing  to  do  with  subjects  that  can  not  be  reckoned. 

Sesquipedalia.  Why,  I  can  not  reckon  about  it.  I 
reckon  it  is  divisible  ad  infinitum.  But  perhaps  your 
work  is  upon  the  materiality  of  light;  and,  if  so,  which 
side  of  the  question  do  you  espouse  ? 

Digit.     Oh,  sir,  I  think  it  quite  immaterial. 

Sesquipedalia.  What !  light  immaterial  I  Do  you  say 
light  is  immaterial? 

Digit.  No ;  I  say  it  is  quite  immaterial  which  side  of 
the  question  I  espouse.  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
And,  besides,  I  am  a  bachelor,  and  do  not  mean  to  es 
pouse  any  thing  at  present. 

Sesquipedalia.  Do  you  write  upon  the  attraction  ot 
cohesion?  You  know  matter  has  the  properties  of  at- 
traction and  repulsion. 

Digit.  I  care  nothing  about  matter,  so  I  can  find 
enough  for  mathematical  demonstration. 

SesquipedcUia.  I  can  not  conceive  what  you  have  wrii 
ten  upon,  then.  Oh,  it  must  be  the  centripetal  and  cen 
trifugal  motions. 

Digit.  {Peevishly.)  No,  no!  I  wish  Mr.  Morrell  woula 
come !  Sir,  I  have  no  motions  but  such  as  I  can  make 
with  my  pencil  upon  my  slate,  thus.  {Figuring  upon  hit 
hand.)  Six,  minus  four,  plus  two,  equal  eight,  minus  six^ 
plus  two.     There,  those  are  my  motions. 

Sesquipedalia.  Oh,  I  perceive,  you  grovel  in  the  depths 
of  Arithmetic.  I  suppose  you  never  soared  into  the  re- 
gions of  Philosophy.  You  never  thought  of  the  vacuum 
which  has  so  long  filled  the  heads  of  philosophei'S. 

Digit.  Vacuum !  {Putting  his  hand  to  his  forehead.) 
Let  me  think. 

Sesquipedalia.  Ha  I  what !  have  you  got  it,  sub  manu, 
that  is,  under  your  hand?     Hal  ha  I  ha! 

12 


i3-i  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

^  Digit.  Eh  I  under  my  hand  ?  "What  do  you  mean, 
sir  ?  that  my  head  is  a  vacuum  ?  Would  you  insult  me, 
sir?  insult  Archimedes  Digit?  Why,  sir,  I'll  cipher 
you  into  infinite  divisibility.  I'll  set  you  on  an  inverted 
cone,  and  give  you  a  centripetal  and  centrifugal  motion 
out  of  the  window,  sir  I    I'll  scatter  your  solid  contents  ? 

Sesquipedalia.  Da  veniam,  that  is,  pardon  me,  it  was 
merely  a  lapsus  Unguoe,  that  is 

Digit  Well,  sir,  I  am  not  fond  of  lapsus  linguces^  at 
all,  sir.  However,  if  you  did  not  mean  to  offend,  I  ac- 
cept your  apology.     I  wish  Mr.  Morrell  would  come. 

Sesquipedalia.  But,  sir,  is  your  work  upon  mathemat- 
ics? 

Digit.  Yes,  sir.  In  this  manuscript  I  have  endeav 
ored  to,  elucidate  the  squaring  of  the  circle. 

Sesquipedalia.  But,  sir,  a  square  circle  is  a  contradic 
tion  in  terms.     You  can  not  make  one. 

Digit.  I  perceive  you  are  a  novice  in  this  sublime 
science.  The  object  is  to  find  a  square  which  shall  be 
equal  to  a  given  circle ;  which  I  have  done  by  a  rule 
drawn  from  the  radii  of  the  circle  and  the  diagonal  of 
the  square.  And  by  my  rule  the  area  of  the  square  will 
equal  the  area  of  the  circle. 

Sesquipedalia.  Your  terms  are  to  me  incomprehens- 
ible. Diagonal  is  derived  from  the  Greek;  Dia  and 
gomeo,  that  is,  "through  the  corner."  But  I  don't  see 
what  it  has  to  do  with  a  circle;  for,  if  I  understand 
aright,  a  circle,  like  a  sphere,  has  no  corners. 

Digit.  You  appear  to  be  very  ignorant  of  the  science 
of  numbers.  Your  life  must  be  very  insipidly  spent  in 
poring  over  philosophy  and  the  dead  languages.  You 
never  tasted,  as  I  have,  the  pleasure  arising  from  the  in- 
vestigation of  a  difficult  problem,  or  the  discovery  of  a 
new  rule  in  quadratic  equations. 

Sesquipedalia.  Poh!  poh!  {Turns  round  in  disgust, 
and  hits  Digit  with  his  cane.) 

Digit.     Oh,  you  villain  ! 

Sesquipedalia.     I  wish,  sir 

Digit.  And  so  do  I  wish,  sir,  that  that  cane  was  raised 
to  the  fourth  power,  and  laid  over  your  head  as  manj 
times  as  there  are  units  in  a  thousand.     Oh !  oh ! 

Sesquiptdalia.     Did  my  cane  come  in  contact  with  the 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  185 

Bpliere  of  attraction  around  your  shin  ?     I  must  confess, 

sir 

(Enter  Trill) 

But  here  is  Mr.  Morrell^  Salve  Dominef  Sir,  your 
servant. 

Trill.     Which  of  you,  gentlemen,  is  Mr.  Morrell  ? 

Sesquipedalia.  Oh  1  neither,  sir.  I  took  you  for  thai 
gentleman. 

Trill.  No,  sir ;  I  am  a  teacher  of  music.  Flute,  harp, 
viol,  violin,  violoncello,  organ,  or  any  thing  of  the  kind; 
any  instrument  you  can  mention.  I  have  just  been  dis- 
playing my  powers  at  a  concert,  and  come  recommended 
to  the  patronage  of  Mr.  Morrell. 

Sesquipedalia.  For  the  same  purpose  are  that  gentle- 
man and  myself  here. 

Digit.      (Still  rubbing  his  shin.)     Oh  !  oh  I 

Trill.  Has  the  gentleman  the  gout  ?  I  have  heard  ot 
its  being  cured  by  music.  Shall  I  sing  you  a  tune? 
Hem  I  hem  I     Faw 

Digit.  No,  no ;  I  want  none  of  your  tunes.  I'd  make 
that  philosopher  sing,  though,  and  dance,  too,  if  he 
hadn't  made  a  vulgar  fraction  of  my  leg. 

Sesquipedalia.  In  veritat^,  that  is,  in  truth,  it  happened 
forte,  that  is,  by  chance. 

Trill.     (Talking  to  himself.)     If  B  be  flat,  me  is  in  E. 

Digit.  Aye,  sir;  this  is  only  an  integral  part  of  your 
conduct,  ever  since  you  came  into  this  house.  You  have 
continued  to  multiply  your  insult«?  in  the  abstract  ratio 
of  a  geometrical  progression,  and  at  last  have  proceeded 
to  violence.  The  dignity  of  Archimedes  Digit  never 
experienced  such  a  reduction  descending  before. 

THll.  (To  himself.)  Twice  /a,  sol^  la,  and  then  comes 
me  again. 

Digit.  If  Mr.  Morrell  does  not  admit  me  soon,  I'll 
leave  the  house,  while  my  head  is  on  my  shoulders. 

Ti'ill.  Gentlemen,  you  neither  keep  time  nor  chord. 
But,  if  you  can  sing,  we  will  carry  a  trio  before  we  go. 

Sesquipedalia.  Can  you  sing  an  ode  of  Horace  or  Ana- 
creon  ?     I  should  like  to  hear  one  of  them. 

Digit.  I  had  rather  hear  you  sing  a  demonstration  of 
the  forty -seventh  proposition,  first  book. 


126  ENTERTAIN  [NG  DIALOGUES. 

Trill.  I  never  heard  of  those  performers,  sir ;  where 
did  they  belong  ? 

Sesquipedalia.     They  did  belong  to  Italy  and  Greece. 

Trill  Ah  !  Italy  I  There  are  our  best  masters,  such 
as  Morelli  and  Fuselli.  Can  you  favor  me  with  some  of 
their  compositions  ? 

Sesquipedalia.  Oh  yes ;  if  you  have  a  taste  that  way, 
I  can  furnish  you  with  them,  and  with  Virgil,  Sallust, 
Cicero,  Caesar,  and  Quintilian ;  and  I  have  an  old  Greek 
Lexicon,  which  I  can  spare. 

2HII.  Ad  libitum^  my  dear  sir,  they  will  make  a  hand- 
some addition  to  my  musical  library. 

Digit.  But,  sir,  what  pretensions  have  you  to  the  pat- 
ronage of  Mr.  Morrell  ?  I  don't  believe  you  can  square 
the  circle. 

Trill.  Pretensions,  sir !  I  have  gained  a  victory  over 
the  great  Tantamarrarra,  the  new  opera  singer,  who  pre- 
tended to  vie  with  me.  'Twas  in  the  symphony  of  Han- 
del's Oratorio  of  Saul,  where  you  know  every  thing  de- 
pends upon  the  tempo  giusto^  and  where  the  primo  should 
proceed  in  smorgando^  and  the  secundo,  agitati.  But  he 
was  on  the  third  ledger  line,  I  was  an  octave  below, 
when,  with  a  sudden  appoggiatura,  I  rose  to  D  in  alt^  and 
conquered  him. 

{Enter  Drone.) 

Drone.  My  master  says  how  he  will  wait  on  you,  gen- 
tlemen. 

Digit.     What  is  your  name,  sir? 

Drone.     Drone,  at  your  service. 

Digit.  No,  no ;  you  need  not  drone  at  my  service. 
A  very  applicable  name,  however. 

Sesquipedalia.  Drone?  That  is  derived  from  the 
Greek  Draon^  that  is,  flying  or  moving  swiftly. 

Trill.  He  seems  to  move  in  andante  measure,  that  is, 
to  the  tune  of  Old  Hundred. 

Drone.     Yery  likely,  gentlemen. 

Digit.     Well,  as  I  came  first,  I  will  enter  first. 

Sesquipedalia.  Eight.  You  shall  be  the  antecedent,  I 
the  subsequent,  and  Mr.  Trill  the  consequent. 

Trill.  Eight.  I  was  always  a  man  of  consequence — 
Fa,  sol,  la,  Fa,  sol,  &c.     {Exeunt.) 


ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES.  187 

DIALOGUE    XLIV. 

IRISH  COURTESY. 

Stranger — O'Callaohan. 

Stranger.  I  have  lost  my  way,  good  friend ;  can  you 
assist  me  in  finding  it  ? 

GCallaghan.  Assist  you  in  finding  it,  sir?  aye,  by  mv 
faith  and  troth,  and  that  I  will,  if  it  was  to  the  world  s 
end,  and  further  too. 

Stranger.  I  wish  to  return  by  the  shortest  route  to  the 
Black  Rock. 

O  Callaghan.  Indade,  and  you  will,  so  plase  your 
honor's  honor — and  O'Callaghan's  own  self  shall  show 
you  the  way,  and  then  you  can't  miss  it,  you  know. 

Stranger.  I  would  not  give  you  so  much  trouble,  Mr. 
O'Callaghan. 

G'  Callaghan.  It  is  never  a  trouble,  so  plase  your 
honor,  for  an  Irishman  to  do  his  duty.     (Bowing.) 

Stranger.     Whither  do  you  travel,  friend  ? 

0^  Callaghan.  To  Dublin,  so  plase  your  honor — sure 
all  the  world  knows  that  Judy  O'Flannaghan  will  be 
married  to-morrow,  God  willing,  to  Pat  Ryan ;  and  Pat, 
you  know,  is  my  own  foster-brother — because  why,  we 
had  but  one  nurse  betwane  us,  and  that  was  my  own 
mother;  but  she  died  one  day — the  Lord  rest  her  swate 
soul !  and  left  me  an  orphan,  for  my  fixther  married  again, 
and  his  new  wife  was  the  devil's  own  child,  and  did 
nothing  but  bate  me  from  morning  till  night.  Och,  why 
did  I  not  die  before  I  was  born  to  see  that  day !  for,  by 
St.  Patrick,  the  woman's  heart  was  as  cold  as  a  hailstone. 

Stranger.  But  what  reason  could  she  have  for  treating 
you  so  unmercifully,  Mr.  O'Callaghan? 

0'  Callaghan.  Ah,  your  honor,  and  sure  enough  there 
aie  always  rasons  as  plenty  as  pratees  for  being  hard- 
hearted. And  I  was  no  bigger  than  a  dumpling  at  the 
time,  so  I  could  not  help  myself,  and  my  father  did  not 
care  to  help  me,  and  so  I  hopped  the  twig,  and  parted 
old  Nick's  darling;  och,  may  the  devil  find  her  wherever 
she  goes.  But  here  I  am  alive  and  lapeing,  and  going  to 
see  Pat  married:  and  faith,  to  do  him  justice,  he's  as 

12* 


138  ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES. 

honest  a  lad  as  any  within  ten  miles  of  us,  and  no  dis- 
paragement, neither;  and  I  love  Pat,  and  I  love  all  his 
family ;  aye.  b}^  my  shoul  do  I,  every  mother's  son  of 
them — and  by  the  same  token,  I  have  traveled  many  a 
long  mile  to  be  present  at  his  wedding. 

Stranger.  Your  miles  in  Ireland  are  much  longer  than 
ours,  I  believe. 

O  Callaghan.  Indade,  and  you  may  belave  that,  your 
honor,  because  why,  St.  Patrick  measured  them  in  his 
coach,  you  know.  Och,  by  the  powers ! — the  time  has 
been — but,  'tis  no  matter,  not  a  single  copper  at  all  at  all 
now  belongs  to  the  family — but,  as  I  was  saying,  the  day 
has  been,  aye,  by  my  troth,  and  the  night  too,  when  the 
O'Callaghans,  good  luck  to  them,  held  their  heads  up  as 
high  as  the  best ;  and  though  I  have  not  a  rod  of  land 
belonging  to  me,  but  what  I  hire,  I  love  my  country,  and 
would  halve  my  last  pratee  with  every  poor  creature  that 
has  none. 

Stranger.  Pray  how  does  the  bride  appear,  Mr.  O'Cal 
laghan  ? 

O  Callaghan.  Och,  by  my  shoul,  your  honor,  she's  a 
nate  article;  and  then  she  will  be  rigged  out  as  gay  as  a 
lark  and  as  fine  as  a  peacock;  because  why,  she  has  a 
great  lady  for  her  godmother,  long  life  and  success  to 
her,  who  has  given  Judy  two  milch  cows  and  five  pounds 
in  hard  money;  and  Pat  has  taken  as  dacent  apartments 
as  any  in  Dublin — a  nate  comely  parlor  as  you'd  wish  to 
see,  just  six  fate  under  ground,  with  a  nice,  beautiful 
ladder  to  go  down — and  all  so  complate,  and  gentale,  and 
comfortable,  as  a  body  may  say 

Stranger.     Nothing  like  comfort,  Mr.  O'Callaghan. 

0'  Callaghan.  Faith,  and  you  may  say  that,  your  hon- 
or. {Ruhhing  his  hands.)  Comfort  is  comfort,  says  I  to 
Mrs.  O'Callaghan,  when  we  are  all  sated  so  cleverly 
around  a  great  big  turf  fire,  as  merry  as  grigs,  with  the 
dear  little  grunters  snoring  so  swately  in  the  corner,  de- 
fying wind  and  weather,  with  a  dry  thatch,  and  a  sound 
conscience  to  go  to  slape  upon 

Stranger.     A  good  conscience  makes  a  soft  pillow. 

O*  Callaghan.  Och,  jewel,  sure  it  is  not  the  best  beds 
that  make  the  best  slapers ;  for  there's  Kathleen  and  my- 
self can  slape  like  two  great  big  tops,  and  our  bed  is 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  189 

uonc  of  the  softest — because  why,  we  slape  on  the 
ground,  and  have  no  bed  at  all  at  all. 

Stranger.  It  is  a  pity,  my  honest  ifellow,  that  you 
should  ever  want  one.  There — {giving  him  a  guinea) — 
good-by,  Mr.  O'Callaghan. 

0'  Callaghan.  I'll  drink  your  honor's  health,  that  I 
will  •  and  may  God  and  the  blessed  Virgin  bless  you  and 
yours,  as  long  as  grass  grows  and  water  runs. 


DIALOGUE    XLV. 

A  SCENE  FROM  THE  GIPSEY ;  OR,  WHOSE  SON  AM  1 

Scene. — A  room  in  a  country  inn. 

Enter  Captain  Etheridgb  and  Captain  Mertoun,  ushered  in  by 
the  Landlord.) 

Landlord.  Will  you  be  pleased  to  take  any  thing, 
gentlemen  ? 

Capt.  Eih.     I  can  answer  for  myself — nothing. 

Capt.  Mer.  I  agree  and  disagree  with  you ;  that  is,  1 
coincide  with  you  in — nothing. 

Capt.  Eth.  Then  I  trust,  Mr.  Harness,  that  you  will 
coincide  with  us  in  expediting  the  greasing  of  that  radi- 
cal wheel  as  soon  as  possible,  and  let  us  know  where  the 
horses  are  put  to. 

Landlord.  Most  certainly,  Captain  Etheridge ;  I  will 
superintend  it  myself     {Exit  Landlord.) 

Capt.  Eth.  An  old  butler  of  my  father's,  who  set  up 
many  years  ago,  with  a  few  hundred  pounds,  and  the 
Etheridge  Arms  as  a  sign.     He  has  done  well. 

Capt.  Mer.  That  is  to  say,  the  Etheridge  Arms  have 
put  him  on  his  legs,  and  drawing  corks  for  your  father 
nas  enabled  him  to  draw  beer  for  himself  and  his  cus- 
tomers.    Of  course  he  married  the  lady's  maid. 

Capt.  Eth.  No,  he  did  more  wisely ;  he  married  the 
cook. 

Capl.  Mer.  With  a  good  fat  portion  of  kitchen-stuff, 
and  a  life  interest  of  culinary  knowledge.     I  have  no 


140  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

doubt  but  that  he  had  a  further  benefit  from  your  liberal 
father  and  mother. 

Capt.  Eih.  By  the  by,  I  have  spoken  to  you  of  my 
father  repeatedly,  Edward ;  but  you  have  not  yet  heard 
any  remarks  relative  to  my  mother. 

Capt.  Mer.  I  take  it  for  granted,  from  your  report  of 
your  father,  and  my  knowledge  {bowing)  of  the  offspring, 
that  she  must  be  equally  amiable. 

Capt.  Eth.  Had  she  been  so,  I  should  not  have  been 
silent ;  but,  as  I  have  no  secrets  from  you,  I  must  say 
she  is  not — the  yqtj  paragon  of  affection. 

Capt.  Mer.     I  am  sorry  for  it. 

Capt.  Eth.  My  father,  disgusted  with  the  matrimonial 
traps  that  were  set  for  the  post-captain,  and  baronet  of 
ten  thousand  a  year,  resolved,  as  he  imagined  wisely,  to 
marry  a  woman  in  inferior  life ;  who,  having  no  preten- 
sions of  her  own,  would  be  humble  and  domestic.  He 
chose  one  of  his  tenant's  daughters,  who  was  demure  to 
an  excess.  The  soft  paw  of  a  cat  conceals  her  talons. 
My  mother  turned  out  the  very  antipodes  of  his  expect- 
ations. 

Capt.  Mer.     Hum ! 

Capt.  Eth.  Without  any  advantages,  excepting  her 
alliance  with  my  father,  and  a  tolerable  share  of  rural 
beauty,  she  is  as  proud  as  if  descended  from  the  house 
of  Hapsburg,  insults  her  equals,  tramples  on  her  inferi- 
ors, and — what  is  worse  than  all — treats  my  father  very 

Capt.  Mer.  Treats  him  ill !  What !  he  that  was  such 
a  martinet,  such  a  disciplinarian  on  board!  She  does 
not  beat  him  ? 

Capt.  Eth.  No,  not  exactly;  but  so  completely  has 
she  gained  the  upper  hand,  that  the  admiral  is  as  subdued 
as  a  dancing-bear,  obeying  her  orders  with  a  growl,  but 
still  obeying  them.  At  her  command,  he  goads  himself 
into  a  passion  with  whomsoever  she  may  point  out  as  the 
object  of  his  violence. 

Capt.  Mer.  How  completely  she  must  have  mastered 
him  I     How  can  he  submit  to  it  ? 

Capt.  Eth.  Habit,  my  dear  Mertoun,  reconciles  us  to 
such  ;  and  he,  at  whose  frown  hundreds  of  gallant  fellows 
trembled,  is  now  afraid  to  meet  the  eye  of  a  woman. 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  141 

To  avoid  anger  with  lier,  he  affects  anger  ^nih.  every  one 
else.  This  I  mention  to  you,  that  you  may  guide  your 
conduct  toward  her.  Aware  of  your  partiality  to  my 
sister,  it  may  be  as  well 

CajJt.  Mer,  To  hold  the  candle  to  the  demon,  you  mean. 
Your  pardon,  Etheridge,  for  the  grossness  of  the  prov- 
erb. 

Capt.  Elh.  No  apology,  my  dear  fellow.  Hold  the 
candle  when  you  will,  it  will  not  burn  before  a  saint,  and 
that's  the  truth.  Follow  my  advice,  and  I  will  insure 
you  success.  I  only  wish  that  my  amatory  concerns  had 
so  promising  an  appearance. 

Capt.  Mer.     Why,  I  never  knew  that  you  were  struck. 

Capt.  Eth.  The  fact  is  that  I  am  not  satisfied  with 
myself;  and,  when  I  am  away  from  my  Circe,  I  strive  all 
I  can  to  drive  her  from  my  memory.  By  change  of 
scene,  absence,  and  occupation,  I  contrive  to  forget  her 
indifferent  well.  Add  to  all  this,  I  have  not  committed 
myself  by  word  or  deed.  I  have  now  been  three  years 
in  this  way ;  but  the  moment  I  find  myself  within  two 
miles  of  my  fair  one,  as  the  towers  of  my  house  rise 
upon  my  sight,  so  rises  the  passion  in  my  bosom ;  and 
what  I  supposed  I  had  reasoned  away  to  a  mere  dwarf- 
ish inclination,  becomes  at  once  a  mighty  sentiment. 

Capt.  Mer.  That  looks  very  like  attachment.  Three 
years,  did  you  say?  My  dear  brother  in  affliction,  make 
me  your  confident. 

dapt.  Eth.  I  intended  to  do  so,  or  I  should  not  have 
originated  the  subject.  My  father  brought  up  the  daugh- 
ter of  our  steward,  Bargrove,  with  my  sister  Agnes.  I 
have,  therefore,  known  Lucy  from  her  infancy,  and  ought 
I  to  be  ashamed  to  say  how  much  I  am  in  love  with  her? 

Capt.  Mer.  Etheridge,  this  is  a  point  on  which  I  am 
afraid  my  advice  would  not  be  well-received. 

Capt.  Eth.  Of  course  you  would  imply  that  she  must 
be  renounced. 

Capt,  Mer.  Most  assuredly ;  that  is  my  opinion,  on  a 
first  view  of  the  case.     You  have  your  father's  example. 

Capt.  Eth.  I  have;  but  still  tli*'re  are  many  points  in 
my  favor.  Bargrove  is  of  a  very  old,  though  decayed, 
family ;  indeed,  much  more  ancient  than  our  own. 

Capt.  Mej.     I  grant  you,  there  is  one  difficulty  re- 


142  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

moved.  But  still  your  relative  position;  tie  is  now 
your  father's  steward. 

Capt.  Eth.  That  is  certainly  a  great  obstacle ;  but,  on 
the  other  hand,  she  has  really  been  well-educated. 

Capt.  Mer.     Another  point  in  your  favor,  I  grant. 

Capt.  Eth.     With  respect  to  Lucy  herself,  she  is 

Capt.  Mer.  As  your  father  thought  your  mother — per- 
fection. Recollect,  the  soft  paw  of  the  cat  conceals  the 
talons. 

Capt.  Eth.  Judge  for  yourself,  when  you  see  and  con- 
verse with  her.  I  presume  I  am  to  consider  myself 
blind.  At  all  events,  I  have  decided  upon  nothing;  and 
have  neither,  by  word  or  deed,  allowed  lier  to  suppose  an 
attachment  on  my  part :  still  it  is  a  source  of  great  anx- 
iety. I  almost  wish  that  she  :were  happily  married.  By 
the  by,  my  mother  hates  her. 

Capt.  Mer.  That's  not  in  your  favor,  though  it  is  in 
her's. 

Capt.  Eth.     And  my  father  dotes  upon  her. 

Capt.  Mer.     That's  in  favor  of  you  both. 

Capt.  Eth.  Now  you  have  the  whole  story,  you  may 
advise  me  as  you  please ;  but  remember,  I  still  preserve 
my  veto. 

Capt.  Mer.  My  dear  Etheridge,  with  your  permission. 
I  will  not  advise  at  all.  Your  father  tried  in  the  same 
lottery,  and  drew  a  blank ;  you  may  gain  the  highest 
prize ;  but  my  hopes  with  your  sister  render  it  a  most 
delicate  subject  for  my  opinion.  Your  own  good  sense 
must  guide  you. 

Capt.  Eth.  Unfortunately  it  often  happens  that,  when 
a  man  takes  his  feelings  for  a  guide,  he  walks  too  fast  for 
good  sense  to  keep  pace  with  him. 

Capt.  Mer.  At  all  events  be  not  precipitate ;  and  do 
not  advance  one  step  which,  as  a  man  of  honor,  you  may 
not  retrace. 

Capt.  Eth.  I  will  not,  if  I  can  help  it.  But  here  comes 
Mr.  Harness.     {Exeunt^ 


ENTERTAINING    DIA1.0GUE3.  143 

DIALOGUE    XLVI. 

THE  CANING 
ALDERMAN  SMUGGLER — SIR   HARRY   WILDAIR — JOHN. 

Sir  Harry.     Dear  Mr.  Alderman,  I'm  your  most  de 
voted  and  humble  servant. 

Alderman  Smuggler.  My  best  friend,  Sir  Harry,  you're 
welcome  to  England. 

Sir  Harry.  I'll  assure  you,  sir,  there's  not  a  man  in 
the  king's  dominions  I  am  gladder  to  meet,  dear,  dear 
Mr.  Alderman.     {Bowing  very  low.) 

Alderman  Smuggler.  Oh !  my  good  sir,  you  travelers 
have  the  kindest,  the  most  obliging  ways  with  you. 

Sir  Harry.  There  is  a  business,  Mr.  Alderman,  fallen 
out,  which  you  may  oblige  me  infinitely  by — I  am  very 
sorry  that  I  am  forced  to  be  troublesome — but  necessity, 
Mr.  Alderman 

Alderman  Smuggler.  Aye,  sir,  as  you  say,  necessity. 
But,  upon  my  word,  dear  sir,  I  am  very  short  of  money 
at  present,  but 

Sir  Harry.  That's  not  the  matter,  sir ;  I'm  above  an 
obligation  that  way ;  but  the  business  is,  I  am  reduced 
to  an  indispensable  necessity  of  being  obliged  to  you  for 
a  beating.     Here,  take  this  cane. 

Alderman  Smuggler.  A  beating.  Sir  Harry  I  ha,  ha, 
ha  I  I  beat  a  knight  baronet!  An  alderman  turned 
cudgel-pla3^er !  ha,  ha,  ha! 

Sir  Harry.  Upon  my  word,  sir,  you  must  beat  me,  or 
I'll  beat  you  ;  take  your  choice. 

Alderman  Smuggler.     Pshal  pshal  you  jest. 

Sir  Harry.  Nay,  'tis  sure  as  fate ;  so,  my  dear,  dear 
Mr.  Alderman,  1  hope  you'll  pardon  my  curiosity. 
(Strikes  him.) 

Alderman  Smuggler.  Curiosity!  Deuce  take  youi 
curiosity,  sir.     What  d'ye  mean  ? 

Sir  Harry.     Nothing  at  all.     I'm  but  in  jest,  good  sir. 

Alderman  Smuggler.  Oh!  I  can  take  any  thing  in 
jest;  but  a  man  might  imagine,  by  the  smartness  of  the 
stroke,  that  you  were  in  downright  earnest. 


144  ENTEETAINING    DIALOGUES. 

jSir  Harry.  Not  in  tlie  least^  sir;  {strikes  him)  not  in 
tlie  least,  indeed,  dear  sir. 

Alderman  Smuggler.  Pray,  good  sir,  no  more  of  your 
jests ;  for  they  are  the  bluntest  jests  that  I  ever  knew. 

Sir  Harry.  {Strikes  him.)  I  heartily  beg  your  pardon, 
with  all  my  heart,  sir. 

Alderman  Smuggler.  Pardon,  sir!  Well,  sir,  that  is 
satisfaction  enough  from  a  gentleman;  but  seriously 
now,  Sir  Harry,  if  you  pass  any  more  of  your  jests  upon 
me,  I  shall  grow  angry. 

Sir  Harry.  I  humbly  beg  your  permission  to  break 
one  or  two  more.     {Strikes  him.) 

Alderman  Smuggler.  Oh!  oh!  sir,  you'll  certainly 
break  my  bones.  Are  you  mad,  sir  ?  John !  John  I 
murder^  felony,  manslaughter,  murder !     {Runs  about.) 

Sir  Harry.  Sir,  I  beg  you  ten  thousand  pardons ;  but 
I  am  absolutely  compelled  to  it,  upon  my  honor,  sir ; 
nothing  can  be  more  averse  to  my  inclination  than  to 
jest  with  my  honest,  dear,  loving,  obliging  friend,  the 
alderman.     {Striking  him  all  the  time.) 

(Enter  John.) 

John.  Oh!  goodness!  Sir  Harry's  murdering  the 
poor  old  man. 

Alderman  Smuggler.  Oh!  John,  oh!  John,  I  have 
been  beaten  in  jest  till  I  am  almost  murdered  in  good 
earnest. 

John.  Oh!  for  charity's  sake,  Sir  Harry,  remember 
what  you  are  doing ;  forbear,  sir,  or  I'll  raise  the  neigh- 
borhood. {Aside)  Though,  to  tell  the  truth,  the  old 
rogue  richly  deserves  it,  and,  for  my  part,  I  enjoy  the 
joke.     {Sir  H.  takes  snuff.) 

Alderman  Smuggler.  Now,  sir,  I  will  have  amends, 
sir,  before  I  leave  the  place,  sir ;  how  durst  you  use  me 
thus? 

Sir  Harry.     Sir? 

Alderman  Smuggler.  Sir,  I  say  that  I  will  have  satis- 
faction. 

Sir  Harry.  Oh !  sir,  with  all  my  heart.  {Throws  snuff 
in  his  eyes.) 

Alderman   Smuggler.      Oh!    murder,   blindness,   fire  I 


ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES.  146 

Oh.  John,  John  I  get  me  some  water  I  water,  fire,  water! 
{Exit  with  Jokn.\ 

Sir  Harry.     How  pleasant  is  resenting  an  injury  with- 
out passion  I  'tis  the  beauty  of  revenge. 

Let  statesmen  plot,  and  under  business  groan, 
And,  settlinp:  public  quiet,  lose  their  own ; 
I  make  the  most  of  liib — no  hour  misspend, 
Pleasure's  thn  mean,  and  pleasure  is  my  end. 
No  spleen,  no  trouble,  shall  my  time  destroy; 
Life's  but  a  span,  I'll  every  inch  enjoy. 


DIALOGUE    XLVII. 

INDIGESTION. 

Scene. — Dr.  Qregory\  Study.    Enter  a  plump  Glasgow  Merchant. 

Merchant.  Good  morning.  Doctor  Gregory.  I  am  just 
come  into  Edinburgh,  about  some  law  business,  and  I 
thought,  when  I  was  here,  at  any  rate,  I  might  just  as 
well  take  your  advice,  sir,  about  my  trouble. 

Doctor.  Pray,  sir,  sit  down.  And  now,  my  good  sir, 
what  may  your  trouble  be  ? 

Merchant.  Indeed,  doctor,  I  am  not  very  sure ;  but  I 
am  thinking  it  is  a  kind  of  weakness  that  makes  me  dizzy 
at  times,  and  a  kind  of  pinkling  about  my  stomach ; — I 
am  not  just  right. 

Doctor.  You  are  from  the  west  country,  I  should  sup- 
pose, sir? 

Merchant.     Yes,  sir,  from  Glasgow. 

Doctor.     Aye ;  pray,  sir,  are  you  a  glutton  ? 

Merchant.  God  forbid,  sir ;  I  am  one  of  the  plainest 
men  living  in  all  the  west  country. 

Doctor,     Then,  perhaps,  you  are  a  drunkard? 

Merchant.  No,  Dr.  Gregory ;  thank  God,  no  one  can 
accuse  me  of  that.  I  am  of  the  dissenting  persuasion, 
doctoi',  and  an  elder ;  so  you  may  suppose  I  am  no  drunk- 
ard. 

Doctor.  I'll  suppose  no  such  thing,  till  you  tell  me 
your  mode  of  life.  I  am  so  much  puzzled  with  your 
symptoms^  sir,  that  I  should  wish  to  hear,  in  detail,  what 

IS 


146  ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES. 

jou  do  eat  and  drink.  When  do  you  breakfast,  and 
what  do  you  take  at  it  ? 

Merchant.  I  breakfast  at  nine  o'clock ;  take  a  cup  of 
coffee,  and  one  or  two  cups  of  tea,  a  couple  of  eggs,  and 
a  bit  of  ham  or  smoked  salmon,  or  may  be  both,  if  they 
are  good,  and  two  or  three  rolls  and  butter. 

Doctor.  Do  you  eat  no  honey,  or  jelly,  or  jam  at 
breakfast  ? 

Merchant.  Oh,  yes,  sir !  but  I  do  not  count  that  as 
any  thing. 

Doctor.  Come,  this  is  a  very  moderate  breakfast. 
What  kind  of  a  dinner  do  you  make? 

Merchant.  Oh,  sir,  I  eat  a  very  plain  dinner  indeed. 
Some  soup,  and  some  fish,  and  a  little  plain  roast  or 
boiled ;  for  I  do  not  care  for  made  dishes.  I  think  some 
way  they  never  satisfy  the  appetite. 

Doctor.  Do  you  take  a  little  pudding  then,  and  after- 
ward some  cheese  ? 

Merchant.  Oh,  yes !  though  I  do  not  care  much  about 
them. 

Doctor.  You  take  a  glass  of  ale  or  porter  with  your 
cheese  ? 

Merchant.     Yes,  one  or  the  other ;  but  seldom  both. 

Doctor.  You  west  country  people  generally  take  a 
glass  of  Highland  whiskey  after  dinner. 

Merchant.     Yes,  we  do  ;  it's  good  for  digestion. 

Doctor.     Do  you  take  any  wine  during  dinner? 

Merchant.  Yes,  a  glass  or  two  of  sherrv ;  but  I  am 
indifferent  as  to  wine  during  dinner.  I  drink  a  good 
deal  of  beer. 

Doctor.     What  quantity  of  port  do  you  drink  ? 

Merchant.  Oh,  very  little ;  not  above  a  half  dozen 
glasses  or  so. 

Doctor.  In  the  west  country  it  is  impossible,  I  hear,  to 
dine  without  punch  ? 

Merchant.  Yes,  sir;  indeed,  it  is  punch  we  drink 
chiefly ;  but  for  myself,  unless  I  happen  to  have  a  friend 
with  me,  I  never  take  more  than  a  couple  of  tumblers  or 
so,  and  that's  moderate. 

Doctor.  Oh,  exceedingly  moderate,  indeed !  You  then, 
after  this  slight  repast,  take  some  tea  and  bread  and  but 
ter? 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  147 

Merchant.  Yes,  before  I  go  to  the  counting-liouse  to 
read  tlie  evening  letters. 

Doctor,  And,  on  your  return,  you  take  supper,  I  sup- 
pose? 

Merchant,  No,  sir,  I  can  not  be  said  to  take  supper ;  just 
something  before  going  to  bed ;  a  broiled  haddock,  or  a  bit 
of  toasted  cheese,  or  a  half-hundred  of  oysters,  or  the  like 
of  that,  and  may  be  two-thirds  of  a  bottle  of  ale ;  but  I 
take  no  regular  supper. 

Doctor.     But  you  take  a  little  more  punch  after  that? 

Merchant.  No,  sir;  punch  does  not  agree  with  me  at 
bed-time.  I  take  a  tumbler  of  warm  whiskey  toddy  at 
night ;  it  is  lighter  to  sleep  on. 

Doctor.  So  it  must  be,  no  doubt.  This,  you  say,  is 
your  every-day  life ;  but,  upon  great  occasions,  you  per- 
haps exceed  a  little? 

Merchant.  No,  sir ;  except  when  a  friend  or  two  dine 
with  me,  or  I  dine  out,  which,  as  I  am  a  sober  family 
man,  does  not  often  happen. 

Doctor.     Not  above  twice  a  week  ? 

Merchant.     No ;  not  oftener. 

Doctor.  Of  course  you  sleep  well  and  have  a  good  ap- 
petite ? 

Merchant.  Yes,  sir,  thank  God,  I  have;  indeed,  any 
ill  health  that  I  have  is  about  meal-time. 

Doctor.  {Assuming  a  severe  look,  knitting  his  brow,  and 
lowering  his  eyebrows.)  Now,  sir,  you  are  a  very  pretty 
fellow,  indeed.  You  come  here,  and  tell  me  you  are  a 
moderate  man  ;  but,  upon  examination,  I  find,  by  your 
own  showing,  that  you  are  a  most  voracious  glutton. 
You  said  you  were  a  sober  man ;  yet,  by  your  own  show- 
ing, you  are  a  beer-swiller,  a  dram-drinker,  a  wine-bibber, 
and  a  guzzler  of  punch.  You  tell  me  you  eat  indigestible 
suppers,  and  swill  toddy  to  force  sleep.  1  see  that  you 
chew  tobacco.  Now,  sir,  what  1:  uman  stomach  can  stand 
this?  Go  home,  sir,  and  leave  your  present  course  of 
riotous  living,  and  there  are  hopes  that  your  stomach 
may  recover  its  tone,  and  you  be  in  good  health,  like 
your  neighbors. 

Merchant.  I  am  sure,  doctor,  I  am  very  much  obliged 
to  you.  {Taking  out  a  pocket-book)  I  shall  endeavor 
to 


148  ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES. 

Doctor.  Sir,  you  are  not  obliged  to  me.  Put  up  youi 
money,  sir.  Do  you  think  I  will  take  a  fee  for  telling 
you  what  you  know  as  well  as  myself?  Though  you 
are  no  physician,  sir,  you  are  not  altogether  a  fool.  Go 
home,  sir,  and  reform,  or  take  my  word  for  it,  your  life 
is  not  worth  half  a  year's  purchase. 


DIALOGUE   XLVIII. 

A  DECEIVER  DECEIVED. 


Sir  Christopher.  And  so,  friend  Blackletter,  you  are 
just  from  college  ? 

Quiz.     Yes,  sir. 

Sir  Oh.  Ah,  Mr.  Blackletter,  I  once  loved  the  name 
of  a  college,  until  my  son  proved  so  worthless. 

Quiz.  In  the  name  of  all  the  literati,  what  do  you 
mean?  You  fond  of  books,  and  not  bless  your  stars  in 
giving  you  such  a  son  ? 

Sir  Gh.  Ah,  sir,  he  was  once  a  youth  of  promise. 
But  do  you  know  him  ? 

Quiz.  What!  Frederick  Classic?  Aye,  that  I  do; 
heaven  be  praised ! 

Sir  Gh.  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Blackletter,  he  is  wonderfully 
changed. 

Quiz.  And  a  lucky  change  for  him.  What  I  I  sup- 
pose he  was  once  a  wild  young  fellow  ? 

Sir  Gh.  No,  sir ;  you  don't  understand  me,  or  I  don't 
you.  I  tell  you,  he  neglects  his  studies,  and  is  foolishly 
in  love ;  for  which  I  shall  certainly  cut  him  off  with  a 
shilling. 

Quiz.  You  surprise  me,  sir  I  must  beg  leave  to  un- 
deceive you ;  you  are  either  oat  of  your  senses,  or  some 
wicked  enemy  of  his  has  undoubtedly  done  him  this 
injury.  Why,  sir,  he  is  in  love,  I  grant  you  ;  but  it  is 
only  with  his  book.  He  hardly  allows  himself  time  to 
eat;  and,  as  for  sleep,  he  scarcely  takes  two  hours  in  the 
twenty-four.  {Adde>j  This  is  a  thumper;  for  the  dog 
has  not  looked  into  a  book  these  six  months,  to  my 
certain  knowledge. 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  149 

jSir  Ch.  I  have  received  a  letter  from  farmer  Down 
right  this  very  day,  who  tells  me  he  has  received  a  letter 
from  him,  containing  proposals  for  his  daughter. 

Quiz.  This  is  very  strange.  I  left  him  at  college,  as 
close  to  his  books  as — oh,  oh — I  believe  I  can  solve  this 
mystery,  and  much  to  your  satisfaction. 

Sir  Ch.  I  should  be  verj  happy,  indeed,  if  you 
could. 

Quiz,  Oh,  as  plain  as  that  two  and  three  are  five. 
'Tis  thus:  An  envious  fellow,  a  rival  of  your  son's — a 
fellow  who  has  not  as  much  sense  in  his  whole  corpora- 
tion as  your  son  has  in  his  little  finger — ^yes,  I  heard  this 
very  fellow  ordering  a  messenger  to  farmer  Downright 
witn  a  letter ;  and  this  is,  no  doubt,  the  very  one.  Whv, 
sir,  your  son  will  certainly  surpass  the  Admirable  Crich- 
ton.  Sir  Isaac  Newton  will  be  a  perfect  automaton,  com- 
pared with  him ;  and  the  sages  of  antiquity,  if  resusci- 
tated, would  hang  their  heads  in  despair. 

Sir  Ch.  Is  it  possible  that  my  son  is  now  at  college, 
making  these  great  improvements? 

Quiz.     Aye,  that  he  is,  sir. 

Sir  Ch.  {Rvbhing  his  hands.)  Oh,  the  dear  fellow!  the 
dear  fellow  I 

Quiz.  Sir,  you  may  turn  to  any  part  of  Homer,  and 
repeat  one  line,  he  will  take  it  up,  and,  by  dint  of  mem 
ory,  continue  repeating  to  the  end  of  the  book. 

Sir  Ch.  Well,  well,  well  I  I  find  I  was  doing  him 
great  injustice.  However,  I'll  make  him  ample  amends. 
Oh,  the  dear  fellow!  the  dear  fellow!  the  dear  fellow ! 
(  With  great  joy.)  He  will  be  immortalized ;  and  so  shall 
I ;  for,  if  I  had  not  cherished  the  boy's  genius  in  embryo, 
he  would  never  have  soared  above  mediocrity. 

Quiz.     True,  sir. 

Sir  Ch.  I  can  not  but  think  what  superlative  pleas- 
ure I  shall  have,  when  my  son  has  got  his  education. 
No  other  man's  in  England  shall  be  comparative  with  it, 
of  that  I  am  positive.  Why,  sir,  the  moderns  arc  such 
dull,  plodding,  senseless  barbarians,  that  a  man  of  learn- 
ing is  as  hard  to  be  found  as  the  unicorn. 

Quiz.  'Tis  much  to  be  regretted,  sir;  but  such  is  the 
lamentable  fact. 

Sir  Ch.     Even  the  shepherds,  in  days  of  yore,  spoke 

13* 


160  ENTERTAINLISTG  DIALOGUES. 

their  motliDr  tongue  in  Latin ;  and  now  hic^  hcec,  hoc  ia 
as  little  understood  as  the  language  of  the  moon. 

Quiz.  Your  son,  sir,  will  be  a  phenomenon  ;  depend 
upon  it. 

Sir  Gh.  So  much  the  better,  so  much  the  better.  I 
expected  soon  to  have  been  in  the  vocative ;  for,  you 
know,  you  found  me  in  the  accusative  case,  and  that's 
very  near  it — ha !  ha  I  ha ! 

Quiz.  You  have  reason  to  be  merry,  sir,  I  promise 
you. 

Sir  Oh.  I  have,  indeed.  Well,  I  shall  leave  off  in- 
terjections, and  promote  an  amicable  conjunction  with 
the  dear  fellow.  Oh  I  we  shall  never  think  of  address- 
ing each  other  in  plain  English — no,  no,  we  will  converse 
in  the  pure  classical  language  of  the  ancients.  You  re- 
member the  Eclogues  of  Yirgil,  Mr.  Blackletter? 

Quiz.  Oh,  yes,  sir,  perfectly ;  have  'em  at  my  finger 
ends.  {Aside.)  Not  a  bit  of  a  one  did  I  ever  hear  of 
in  my  life. 

Sir  Gh.     How  sweetly  the  first  of  them  begins  I 

Quiz.  Yery  sweetly,  indeed,  sir.  {Aside.)  Bless  me, 
I  wish  he  would  change  the  subject. 

Sir  Gh.  "  Tyiere  tu  patulce  recubans ;''^  faith  'tis  more 
musical  than  fifty  hand-organs. 

Quiz.     {Aside.)     I  had  rather  hear  a  jewsharp. 

Sir  Gh.  Talking  of  music,  though — the  Greek  is  the 
langaage  for  that. 

Quiz.     Truly,  it  is. 

Sir  Gh.  Even  the  conjugations  of  the  verbs  far  excel 
the  finest  sonata  of  Pleyel  or  Handel.  For  instance, 
"  tupto^  tupso,  tutuphaJ''     Can  any  thing  be  more  musical? 

Quiz.     Nothing.     ''  Stoop  low,  stoop  so,  stoop  too  far." 

Sir  Gh.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  "Stoop  too  far!"  That's  a 
good  one. 

Quiz.  {Aside..)  Faith,  I  have  stooped  too  far.  All's 
over  now,  by  Jupiter ! 

Sir  Gh.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  a  plaguy  good  pun,  Mr.  Black- 
letter. 

Quiz.  Tolerable.  {Aside)  I  am  well  out  of  that 
scrape,  however. 

Sir  Gh.  Pray,  sir,  which  of  the  classics  is  your  favor- 
ite? 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  151 

Quiz.  Why,  sir,  Mr.  Frederic  Classic,  I  think— he  is 
BO  ffreat  a  scholar. 

Sir  Ch.  Po  I  po !  you  don't  understand  me.  I  mean 
which  of  the  Latin  classics  do  you  admire  most? 

Quiz.  {Aside.)  Hang  it!  what  shall  I  say  now  ?  The 
Tiatin  classics?  Oh,  really,  sir,  I  admire  them  all  so 
ri\ach  it  is  difficult  to  say. 

Sir  Oh.  Virgil  is  my  favorite.  How  very  expressive 
IS  his  description  of  the  unconquerable  passion  of  Queen 
Pido,  where  he  says,  ^'' Hceret  lateri  lethalis  arundo/^^  Is 
pot  that  very  expressive? 

Quiz.  Very  expressive,  indeed,  sir.  (Aside.)  I  wish 
we  were  forty  miles  asunder.  I  shall  never  be  able  to 
hold  out  much  longer,  at  this  rate. 

Sir  Ch.     And  Ovid  is  not  without  his  charms. 

Quiz.     He  is  not,  indeed,  sir. 

Sir  Ch.  And  what  a  dear,  enchanting  fellow  Hor 
ace  is! 

Qiws.     Wonderfully  so  I 

Sir  Oh.     Pray,  what  do  you  think  of  Xenophon  ? 

Quiz.  (Aside.)  Who  the  plague  is  he,  I  wonder? 
Xenophon!  Oh,  I  think  he  unquestionably  wrote 
good  Latin,  sir. 

Sir  Ch.  Good  Latin,  man!  he  wrote  Greek — good 
Greek,  you  meant. 

Quiz.  True,  sir,  I  did.  Latin,  indeed!  (In  great  con- 
fusion.) I  meant  Greek;  did  I  say  Latin?  I  really 
meant  Greek.  (Aside.)  Bless  me !  I  don't  know  what 
I  mean  myself. 

Sir  Ch.  Oh,  Mr.  Blackletter,  I  have  been  trying  a 
long  time  to  remember  the  name  of  one  of  Achilles' 
horses,  but  I  can't  for  my  life  think  of  it.  You  doubtless 
can  tell  me. 

Quiz.  O  yes,  his  name  was — ^but  which  cf  them  do 
you  mean?     What  was  he  called? 

Sir  Ch.  What  was  he  called  ?  Why,  that's  the  very 
thing  I  wanted  to  know.  The  one  I  allude  to  was  born 
of  the  Harpy  Celaeno.  I  can't,  for  the  blood  of  me 
tell  it. 

Quiz.  (Aside.)  Bless  me!  if  I  can  either.  (To him. ^ 
Born  of  the  Harpy — oh!  his  name  was — (striking  his 
forehead.)     Gracious !  I  forget  it  now.     His  name  was— 


152  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

was — waii — strange !  '  'tis  as  familiar  to  me  as  my  A, 
B,  C. 

Sir  Gh.  Oh  I  I  remember — 'twas  Xanthus,  Xantbus — 
I  remember  now — 'twas  Xantbus — plague  o'  tbe  name  I — 
tbat's  it. 

Quiz.  Egad  I  so  it  is.  "  Tbankus,  Tbankus  " — tbat's 
it.  Strange,  I  could  not  remember  it  I  {Aside.)  'Twouli 
]iave  been  stranger  if  I  bad. 

Sir  Ch.  You  seem  at  times  a  little  absent,  Mr.  Black- 
letter. 

Quiz.  Dear  me  I  I  wisb  I  was  absent  altogetbei. 
{Aside.) 

Sir  Gh.  We  sball  not  disagree  about  learning,  sir.  I 
discover  you  are  a  man,  not  only  of  profound  learning, 
but  correct  taste. 

Quiz.  {Aside.)  I  am  glad  you  bave  found  tbat  out, 
for  I  never  sbould.  I  came  bere  to  quiz  tbe  old  fellow, 
and  be'll  quiz  me,  I  fear.  {To  him.)  0,  by  tbe  by,  I 
bave  been  so  confused — I  mean,  so  confounded — psbaw! 
so  mucb  engrossed  witb  tbe  contemplation  of  tbe  Latin 
classics,  I  bad  almost  forgotten  to  give  you  a  letter  from 
your  son. 

Sir  Gh.  Bless  me,  sir  I  wby  did  you  delay  tbat  pleas- 
ure so  long? 

Quiz.     I  beg  pardon,  sir;  bere  'tis.     {Gives  a  letter.) 

Sir  Gh.  {Puts  on  his  spectacles  and  reads.)  "To  Miss 
Clara." 

Quiz.  No,  no,  no — tbat's  not  it — ^bere  'tis.  {Takes  the 
letter,  and  gives  him  another.) 

Sir  Gh.  Wbat !  are  you  tbe  bearer  of  love  epistles, 
too,  Mr.  Blackletter? 

Quiz.  {Aside.)  Wbat  a  borrid  blunder!  {To  him.) 
Ob,  no,  sir;  tbat  letter  is  from  a  female  cousin,  at  a 
boarding-scbool,  to  Miss  Clara  Uprigbt — no,  Down- 
rigbt — tbat's  tbe  name. 

Sir  Gh.  Truly,  sbe  writes  a  good  masculine  fist. 
Well,  let  me  see  wbat  my  boy  bas  to  say.     {Beads.) 

"Dear  Fatber : — Tbere  is  a  famous  (jreek  manuscript 
just  come  to  ligbt.  I  must  bave  it.  Tbe  price  is  about 
a  thousand  dollars.     Send  me  tbe  money  by  tbe  bearer." 

Short  and  sweet.  There's  a  letter  for  you,  in  tbe 
true    Lacedaemonian    style — laconic.      Well,    tbe    boy 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  153 

shall  have  it,  were  it  ten  times  as  much.  I  should  like 
to  see  this  Greek  manuscript.  Pray,  sir,  did  jou  ever 
see  it? 

Quiz,  I  can't  say  I  ever  did,  sir.  {Aside.)  This  is 
the  only  truth  I  have  been  able  to  edge  in  yet. 

Sir  Gh.  I'll  just  send  to  my  bankers  for  the  money. 
In  the  meantime  we  will  adjourn  to  my  library.  I  have 
been  much  puzzled  with  an  obscure  passage  in  Livy. 
Wo  must  lay  our  heads  together  for  a  solution.  But  I 
am  sorry  you  are  addicted  to  such  absence  of  mind  at 
times. 

Quiz.  'Tis  a  misfortune,  sir;  but  I  am  addicted  to 
greater  than  that,  at  times. 

Sir  Gh.     Ah  !  what's  that? 

Quiz.    I  am  sometimes  addicted  to  an  absence  of  body. 

Sir  Gh.     As  how  ? 

Quiz.  Why,  thus,  sir.  {Takes  up  his  hat  and  sticky  and 
walks  off.) 

Sir  Gh.  Ha !  ha !  ha  !  that's  an  absence  of  body  sure 
enough — an  absence  of  body  with  vengeance  I  A  very 
merry  fellow  this.  He  will  be  back  for  the  money,  I 
suppose,  presently.  He  is,  at  all  events,  a  very  moaest 
man,  not  fond  of  expressing  his  opinion — ^but  that's  a 
mark  of  merit. 


DIALOGUE    XLIX. 

THE  LANDLORD  AND  TENANT. 

Sir  Philip  Blandford — Ashfield. 

Sir  Philip.  Come  hither.  I  believe  you  hold  a  farm 
of  mine. 

Ashfield.     Ees,  zur,  I  do,  at  your  zarvice. 

Sir  Philip.     I  hope  a  profitable  one. 

Ashfield.  Zometimes  it  be,  zur.  But  thic  year  it  bo 
all  t'other  way,  as  'twur ;  but  I  do  hope,  as  our  landlords 
have  a  tightish  big  lump  of  the  good,  they'll  be  zo  kind- 
hearted  as  to  take  a  little  bit  of  the  bad. 

Sir  Philip.  It  is  but  reasonable.  I  conclude,  then, 
you  are  in  my  debt. 


154  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Ashfield.     Ees,  zur,  I  be ;  at  your  zarvice. 

Sir  Philip.     How  mucli? 

Ashfield.     I  do  owe  ye  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
at  your  zarvice. 

Sir  Philip.     Which  you  can't  pay. 

Ashfield.     Not  a  varthing,  zur ;  at  your  zarvice. 

Sir  Philip.  Well,  I  am  willing  to  allow  you  every  in- 
dulgence. 

Ashfield.  Be  you,  zur?  that  be  deadly  kind.  Dear 
heart !  it  will  make  my  auld  dame  quite  young  again, 
and  I  don't  think  helping  a  poor  man  will  do  your  hon- 
or's health  any  harm ;  I  don't,  indeed,  zur.  I  had  a 
thought  of  speaking  to  your  worship  aboat  it ;  but  then, 
thinks  I,  the  gentleman  mayhap  be  one  of  those  that  do 
like  to  do  a  good  turn,  and  not  have  a  word  zaid  about 
it:  zo,  zur,  if  you  had  not  mentioned  what  I  owed  you, 
I  am  zure  I  never  should ;  should  not,  indeed,  zur. 

Sir  Philip.  Nay,  I  will  wholly  acquit  you  of  the 
debt,  on  condition 

Ashfield.     Ees,  zur. 

Sir  Philip.  On  condition,  I  say,  that  you  instantly 
turn  out  that  boy — that  Henry. 

Ashfield.  Turn  out  Henry !  Ha,  ha,  ha !  Excuse 
my  tittering,  zur;  but  you  bees  making  your  vun  of  I, 
zure. 

Sir  Philip.  I  am  not  apt  to  trifle :  send  him  instantly 
from  you,  or  take  the  consequences. 

Ashfield.  Turn  out  Henry !  I  do  vow  I  shouldn't 
know  how  to  set  about  it ;  I  should  not,  indeed,  zur. 

Sir  Philip.  You  hear  my  determination.  If  you  dis- 
obey, you  know  what  will  follow.  I'll  leave  you  to  re- 
flect on  it.     (Exit.) 

Ashfield.  Well,  zur,  I'll  argify  the  topic,  and  then  you 
may  wait  upon  me,  and  I'll  tell  ye.  {Makes  the  motion  0/ 
turning  out.)  I  should  be  deadly  awkard  at  it,  vor  zar- 
tain.  However,  I'll  put  the  case.  Well !  I  goes  whizt- 
ling  whoam;  noa,  drabbit  it!  I  shouldn't  be  able  to 
whiztle  a  bit,  I'm  zure.  Well !  I  goes  whoam,  and  I 
zees  Henry  sitting  by  my  wife,  mixing  up  someit  to  com- 
fort the  wold  zoul,  and  take  away  the  pain  of  her  rheu- 
matics. Yery  well !  Then  Henry  places  a  chair  vor  I 
Dy  the  vire-side,  and  zav& — "Yarmer  the  horses  be  fed, 


ENTERTilNING  DIALOGUES.  155 

the  sheep  be  folded,  and  you  have  nothing  to  do  but  to 
zit  down,  smoke  your  pipe,  and  be  happy  I "  Very  well! 
{Becomes  affected.)  Then  1  zays,  "Henry,  you  be  poor 
and  friendless;  so  you  nnust  turn  out  of  my  house  di- 
rectly." Very  well !  Then  my  wife  stares  at  I ;  reaches 
her  hand  toward  the  vire-place,  and  throws  the  poker  at 
my  head.  Very  well !  Then  Henry  gives  a  kind  of 
aguish  shake,  and,  getting  up,  sighs  from  the  bottom  of 
liis  heart ;  then,  holding  up  his  head  like  a  king,  zays, 
"  Varmer,  I  have  too  long  been  a  burden  to  you.  Heav- 
en protect  you,  as  you  have  me.  Farewell  1  I  go." 
Then  1  zays,  "If  thee  doez,  I'll  be  smashed."  {With 
great  energy.)  Hollo !  you  Mister  Sir  Philip  I  you  may 
come  in. 

{Enter  Sir  Philip  Blandford.) 

Zur,  I  have  argified  the  topic,  and  it  wouldn't  be  pret- 
ty;  zo  I  can't. 

Sir  Philip.     Can't! 

Ashfield.  Well,  zur,  there  is  but  another  word:  I 
won't. 

/Sir  Philip.     Indeed ! 

Ashfield.  No,  zur,  I  won't.  I'd  see  myself  hanged 
first,  and  you  too,  zur !     I  would,  indeed.     {Bowing.) 

Sir  Philip.     You  refuse,  then,  to  obey  ? 

Ashfield.     I  do,  zur ;  at  your  zarvice.     {Bowing.) 

Sir  Philip.     Then  the  law  must  take  its  course. 

Ashfi£ld.  I  be  zorry  for  that  too.  I  be,  indeed,  zur ; 
but,  if  corn  wouldn't  grow,  I  couldn't  help  it :  it  weren't 
poisoned  by  the  hand  that  zowed  it.  Thic  hand,  zur,  be 
as  free  from  guilt  as  your  own.  Good  morning  to  you. 
I  do  hope  I  have  made  myself  agreeable ;  and  zo  I'll  go 
whoam.     {Exeunt.) 


DIALOGUE   L 

A  TEMPERANCE  MEETING. 
(Parody  on  the  DeoUration  of  lodependenec) 

John.     Mr.  Chairman  and  ladies  and  gentlemen:— 
When,  in  the  course  of  human  events,  it  becomes  nece& 


156  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

sary  for  one  class  of  citizens  to  dissolve  the  bands  whict 
have  connected  them  with  another  class,  and  to  assume, 
among  their  fellow-citizens,  that  station  and  character  to 
which  the  laws  of  nature  and  of  nature's  God  entitle 
them,  a  decent  respect  to  the  opinions  of  community  re- 
quires that  they  should  declare  the  causes  which  impel 
them  to  the  separation. 

We  hold  these  truths  to  be  self-evident :  that  all 
American  citizens  are  created  free  and  equal ;  that  among 
these  are  life,  liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness ;  that 
to  secure  these  rights,  associations  are  formed,  deriving 
their  powers  from  the  consent  of  the  members  of  the  as- 
sociation, and  that,  whenever  any  custom,  habit,  or  prac- 
tice becomes  destructive  of  the  good  order,  peace,  and 
happiness  of  society,  it  is  the  right  of  any  portion  of  the 
community,  if  they  can  not  alter,  abolish,  or  amend  such 
evil  habit,  or  practice,  to  declare  themselves  free  and  in- 
dependent, and  that  they  will  not  be  enslaved  by  any 
custom,  habit,  or  practice,  which  is  calculated  to  dishonor 
the  name  or  endanger  the  liberties  of  our  glorious  re- 
public. 

Prudence,  indeed,  will  dictate  that  customs  long  estab- 
lished should  not  be  changed  for  light  and  transient 
causes ;  and,  accordingly,  all  experience  hath  shown  that 
mankind  are  more  disposed  to  suffer,  while  evils  are  suf- 
ferable,  than  to  right  themselves  by  abolishing  the  forms 
and  customs  to  which  they  have  long  been  accustomed. 

But  when  a  long  train  of  abuses  and  usurpations,  pur- 
suing invariably  the  same  object,  evinces  a  design  to  re- 
duce a  people  under  absolute  despotism,  it  is  the  people's 
right,  it  is  their  duty,  to  throw  off  such  tyranny,  and  to 
provide  new  guards  for  their  safety  and  respectability ; 
and  such  has  been  the  sufferance  of  the  virtuous  part  of 
our  youthful  community,  and  such  is  now  the  necessity 
which  constrains  them  to  alter  their  course  with  respect 
to  the  use  of  alcoholic  drinks  as  a  beverage,  that  they 
will  no  longer  give  countenance  to  such  a  practice,  thougn 
it  may  have  had  the  patronage  of  wealth  and  the  sanc- 
tion of  years. 

Therefore^  We,  the  members  of  this  school,  including 
officers  and  teachers,  and  all  others  friendly  to  the  enter- 
prise. ^)  declare  ourselves  free  and  independent^  and  we  do 


ENTERTAIN  12^' G  DIALOGUES.  157 

hereby  invite  our  fellow-citizens,  of  every  age,  sex,  and 
color,  to  abstain  from  the  use  of  all  intoxicating  drinks 
iis  a  beverage,  and  that  for  the  following  reasons,  whb^h 
my  worthy  colleague  will  now  state. 

Joseph.  The  history  of  the  reign  of  alcohol  is  a  his- 
tory of  repeated  injuries  and  usurpations,  all  having  a 
direct  tendency  to  reduce  the  free  citizens  of  the  United 
States  to  a  vassalage  more  deplorable  than  the  worst 
slavery  with  which  the  earth  has  ever  been  cursed.  To 
prove  this,  let  facts  be  submitted  to  every  thinking  mind. 
The  demon  of  intemperance  has  refused  his  assent  to 
laws  the  most  necessary  for  the  public  good. 

And.  if  he  could  not  hinder  our  legislative  bodies  from 
passing  laws  calculated  to  restrict  and  limit  his  influence. 
he  has  prevented  their  being  put  into  execution. 

He  has,  on  certain  occasions,  called  together  numbers 
of  our  citizens,  at  certain  places,  rendered  noisy  and  un- 
comfortable by  his  presence,  for  the  sole  purpose  of  de- 
priving them  of  their  money,  their  reason,  their  health, 
and  their  good  character. 

He  has  ridiculed,  despised,  and  persecuted  religious 
bodies,  and  temperance  societies,  for  opposing  with  manly 
firmness  his  invasion  on  the  rights  of  the  people. 

Yes,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  this  tyrant  of  intemperance 
has  invaded  the  domestic  circle,  and  broken  up  the  peace 
of  thousands  of  fiimilies ;  laid  in  hopeless  ruin  the  bright- 
est prospects  of  some  of  our  best  citizens ;  robbed  wealthy 
farmers  of  their  landed  estates,  women  of  their  patrimo- 
ny, and  children  of  their  inheritance ;  he  has  also  stirred 
up  insurrection  within  our  borders,  and  exposed  us  to 
invasions  from  without. 

He  has,  moreover,  induced  many  of  our  citizens  to 
convert  the  fruits  of  the  earth  into  liquid  poison,  for  the 
purpose  of  increasing  their  wealth,  and  has  erected  a 
number  of  offices,  and.  licensed  a  multitude  of  officers,  to 
settle  among  us  to  harass  our  people  and  eat  out  their 
substance. 

He  has  sent  among  us,  in  time  of  peace,  standing 
armies,  without  the  consent  of  our  legislatures.  Those 
bodies  of  armed  troops  have  produced  the  greatest  misery 
imaginable.  Under  the  command  of  officers,  commis- 
sioned and  non-commissioned,  tliey  have  inflicte<l  upon 

14 


168  ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES. 

the  community  tlac  sorest  evils :  poverty,  discontent,  mur« 
muring,  fretfulness,  repining,  hunger,  haggard  looks,  ard 
wretchedness  and  misery  in  almost  every  form  and  shape. 

He  has,  indeed,  ravaged  our  coasts,  and  destroyed  the 
lives  of  our  people.  He  has  also  constrained  our  fellow- 
citizens  to  bear  arms  against  their  xountry,  to  become 
the  executioners  of  their  friends  and  brethren,  their 
wives  and  children,  and  to  fall  themselves  by  their  own 
hands.  Yes,  this  tyrant  alcohol  has  excited  domestic  in- 
surrections among  us,  and  spread  desolation  and  misery 
through  all  ranks  of  society. 

In  a  word,  he  cuts  down  youth  in  its  vigor,  manhood 
in  its  strength,  and  age  in  its  weakness.  He  breaks  the 
parent's  heart,  extinguishes  filial  affection,  and  destroys 
conjugal  love.  He  makes  the  wife  a  widow,  children  or- 
phans, the  husband  a  brute,  the  father  a  fiend  !  and  those 
who  might  have  been  wealthy  citizens,  paupers  and  beg- 
gars. He  covers  the  land,  wherever  he  can,  with  idle- 
ness, poverty,  disease,  and  crime.  He  fills  our  prisons 
with  criminals,  supplies  our  county-houses  with  diseased 
and  useless  inmates,  and  demands  asylums  for  the  incura- 
bly wretched.  He  engenders  strifes,  fosters  quarrels,  and 
cherishes  riots.  He  contemns  law,  spurns  order,  loves 
mobs,  instigates  the  mother  to  murder  her  offspring,  pro- 
vokes the  husband  to  kill  his  wife,  and  urges  the  wife  to 
poison  her  husband.  He  burns  up  man,  consumes  wo- 
man, destroys  children,  detests  life,  curses  God,  and  de- 
spises heaven  I  All  this  is  true,  and  now  I  should  like 
to  hear  what  my  friend  William  has  to  say  on  this  sub- 
ject. 

William.  Well,  Joseph,  I  agree  with  what  you  and 
John  have  said,  and  therefore  beg  leave  to  offer  the  fol- 
lowing preamble  and  resolution : — 

Whereas,  We  have  heard  this  day  with  indescribable 
emotion  of  the  ravages  committed  by  alcohol,  and  the 
miseries  produced  by  intemperance  ;  therefore. 

Resolved,  That  we,  the  members  and  friends  of  this 
school,  and  of  the  temperance  cause,  appealing  to  the 
Supreme  Judge  of  the  world  for  the  rectitude  of  our  in- 
tentions, ^nd  the  justice  of  our  cause,  do  solemnly  pub- 
lish and  declare  that  we  are,  and  of  right  ought  to  be, 
free  frort  the  dominion  of  alcohol ;  and  that  all  conr.ec- 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  159 

tjon  between  ourselves  and  intemperance  is,  and  ought 
to  be,  totally  dissolved ;  and  that,  as  free  and  independ- 
ent citizens,  we  have  full  power  to  levy  war  against  the 
practice  of  making,  selling,  and  drinking  ardent  spirits 
in  the  ordinary  way,  by  using  such  arguments  and  in- 
ducements as  are  not  contrary  to  law:  and,  for, the  sup- 
port of  the  principles  set  forth  in  this  our  declaration, 
and  with  a  firm  reliance  on  the  protection  of  Divine 
Providence,  we  mutually  pledge  to  each  other  the  labor 
of  our  lives,  the  aid  of  our  fortunes,  and  the  influence  of 
our  sacred  honor. 

Chairman.  As  many  as  favor  the  passing  of  the  reso- 
lution just  read  will  manifest  it  by  saying  aye. 

All.     (Strong  and  loud.)     Aye. 


DIALOGUE   LI. 

THE  INVALro  AND  THE  POLFFICTAN. 

(Enter  Feeble,  in  his  dressing-gown.) 

Quidnunc.  ( Without.)  Hold  your  tongue,  you  foolish 
fellow ;  he'll  be  glad  to  see  me.  Brother  Feeble!  brother 
Feeble  I 

Feeble.  I  was  just  going  to  bed.  Bless  my  heart,  what 
can  this  man  want?  I  know  his  voice.  I  hope  no  new 
misfortune  brings  him  at  this  hour.     (Enter  Quid.) 

Quid.  Brother  Feeble,  I  give  you  joy  I  the  nabob's  de- 
molished.    Hurrah ! 

Feeble.  Lack-a-day,  Mr.  Quidnunc  I  how  can  you  serve 
me  thus? 

Quid.     Suraja  Dowla  is  no  more !     Hurrah  I 

Feeble.     (Aside.)     Poor  man!  he's  stark,  staring  mad. 

Quid.  Our  men  diverted  themselves  with  killing  their 
bullocks  and  their  camels,  till  they  dislodged  the  enemy 
from  the  sotagon,  and  the  counterscarp,  and  the  bunga- 
low   

Feeble.  I'll  hear  the  rest  to-morrow.  Oh  !  I'm  ready 
to  die! 

Quid.  Odds-heart,  man,  be  of  good  cheer !  The  new 
nabob,  Jafter  Alley  Cawn,  has  acceded  to  a  treaty;  and 


160  ENTERTAININQ  DIALOGUES. 

the  English  company  got  all  their  rights  in  the  Phiemad 
and  the  Fushbulhoornons. 

Feeble.  But,  dear  heart,  Mr.  Quidnunc,  why  am  I  to  be 
disturbed  by  this? 

Quid.  We  had  but  two  sepoys  killed,  three  chokeys, 
four  gaul-walls,  and  two  zemindars.     Hurrah ! 

Feeble.  ^  Would  not  to-morrow  morning  do  as  well  for 
this? 

Quid.  Light  up  your  windows,  man ! — light  up  your 
windows !     Chandernagore  is  taken !     Hurrah  I 

Feeble.     Well,    well!     I'm   glad  of  it.      Good  night. 

{Going.) 

Quid.     Here — here's  the  "  Gazette  J"* 

Feeble.     Oh,  I  shall  certainly  faint !     {Sits  down.) 

Quid.  Aye,  aye,  sit  down,  and  I'll  read  it  to  you.  {Be- 
gins to  read.  {Feeble  moves  away.)  Nay,  don't  run  away ; 
I've  more  news  to  tell  you.  There's  an  account  from 
Williamsburgh,  in  America.  The  superintendent  of 
Indian  aififairs 

FeebU.     Dear  sir!  dear  sir!     {Avoiding  him) 

Quid.     He  has  settled  matters  with  the  Cherokees 


{Following  him.) 

Feeble.     Enough,  enough  !     {Moving  away.) 

Quid.  In  the  same  manner  that  he  did  before  with  the 
Catawbas {FoUovnng  him.) 

Feeble.     Well,  well ! — your  servant,     {Moving  off.) 

Quid.    So  that  the  white  inhabitants {Following 

him.) 

Feeble.  I  wish  you  would  let  me  be  a  quiet  inhabitant 
of  my  own  house. 

Quid.  So  that  the  white  inhabitants  will  now  be  se- 
cured by  the  Cherokees  and  Catawbas 

Feeble.  You  would  better  go  home,  and  think  of  ap- 
pearing before  the  commissioners. 

Quid.  Go  home !  No,  no !  I'll  go  and  talk  the  mat- 
ter over  at  our  coffee-house,     {Going.) 

Feeble.     Do  so,  do  so ! 

Quid.  ( Turning  back.)  1  had  a  dispute  about  the  bal- 
ance of  power.     Pray,  now,  can  you  tell 

Feeble.     I  know  nothing  of  the  matter. 

Quid.  Well,  another  time  will  do  for  that.  I  have  a 
great  deal  to  say  about  that     {Going — returns.)     'Right  \ 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  161 

I  had  like  to  have  forgot.  There's  an  erratum  in  the 
last  "  Gazette:'     Shall  I  correct  it? 

Feeoh.     With  all  mj  heart. 

Quid.  Page  8,  1st  col.,  1st  and  3d  lines,  for  homhs 
read  booms. 

F&ihle,     Read  what  you  will. 

Quid.  Nay,  but  that  alters  the  sense,  you  know. 
Well,  now,  your  servant.  If  I  hear  any  more  news,  I'll 
come  and  tell  you. 

Feeble.     For  heaven's  sake,  no  more  I 

Quid.  I'll  be  with  you  before  you're  out  of  your 
first  sleep. 

Feeble.     Good  night,  good  night !     {Hurries  off.) 

Quid.  {Screaming  after  him.)  I  forgot  to  tell  you— 
the  emperor  of  Morocco  is  dead.  {To  himself.)  So  now, 
I  have  made  him  happy.  I'll  go  and  wake  up  my  friend 
Razor,  and  make  him  happy,  too ;  and  then  I'll  go  and 
see  if  any  body  is  up  at  the  coffee-house,  and  make  them 
all  happy  there,  too. 


DIALOGUE   LII. 

THE  LAWYER  AND  THE  POLmCIAN. 

Quidnunc  and  Codicil. 

Codicil.  Mr.  Quidnunc,  you  servant.  The  door  was 
open  ;  and  I  entered  upon  the  premises.  I'm  just  come 
from  the  hall. 

Quidnunc.  {Aside.)  'Sbodkins!  this  man  has  now 
come  to  keep  me  at  home. 

Cod.  Mr.  Quidnunc,  I  am  instructed  to  expound  the 
law  to  you. 

Quid.     What,  the  law  of  nations  ? 

Cod.  I  am  instructed,  sir,  that  you're  a  bankrupt. 
Quasi  hancus  ruptus — banque  route  /aire.  And  my  in- 
structions say  further,  that  you  are  summoned  to  appear 
before  the  commissioners  to-morrow. 

Quid.  That  may  be,  sir,  but  I  can't  go  to-morrow ;  and 
so  I  shall  send  them  word.     I  am  to  be  to-morrow  at 

14* 


162  ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES. 

Slaughter's  coffee-house,  with  a  private  committee,  aboul 
business  of  great  consequence  in  the  affairs  of  Europe. 

Cod.  Then,  sir,  if  you  don't  go,  I  must  instruct  you 
that  you  will  be  guilty  of  a  felony :  it  will  be  deemed  to 
be  done  mah  animo  ; — it  is  held  so  in  the  books ;  and 
what  says  the  statute  ?  By  the  6th  George  II.,  chap.  30, 
not  sarrendering,  or  embezzling,  is  felony,  without  ben- 
efit of  clergy. 

Quid.     Aye,  you  tell  me  news. 

God.  Give  me  leave,  sir :  I  am  instructed  to  expound 
the  law  to  you.  Felony  is  thus  described  in  the  books  : 
Felonia^  saith  Hotoman  {De  Verbis  Feudalibus^)  significat 
capitale  facinus — a  capital  offense. 

Quid.     You  tell  me  news — you  do  indeed ! 

Cod.  It  was  so  apprehended  by  the  Goths  and  the 
Longbards.  And  what  saith  Sir  Edward  Coke  ?  Fieri 
debeat  felleo  animo. 

Quid.  You've  told  me  news : — I  did  not  know  it  was 
felony !  But,  if  the  Flanders  mail  should  come  in  while 
I'm  there,  I  should  know  nothing  at  all  of  it. 

Cod.  But  why  should  you  be  uneasy? — cui  bonOj  Mr. 
Quidnunc  ? — cui  bono  f 

Quid.  Not  uneasy !  If  the  Papists  should  beat  the 
Protestants  ? 

Cod.  But  I  tell  you  they  can  get  no  advantage  of  us. 
The  laws  against  the  further  growth  of  popery  will  se- 
cure us.  There  are  provisos  in  favor  of  Protestant  pur- 
chasers under  Papists : — 10th  George  I.,  chap.  4,  and  6th 
George  II.,  chap.  5. 

Quid.     Aye ! 

Cod.  And,  besides.  Popish  recusants  can't  carry  arms; 
so  can  have  no  right  of  conquest,  vi  et  armis. 

Quid.  That's  true,  that's  true  I  I  am  easier  in  my 
mind 

God.  To  be  sure ;  what  are  you  uneasy  about  ?  The 
Papists  can  have  no  claim  to  Silesia. 

Quid.     Can't  they  ? 

God.  No ;  they  can  set  up  no  claim.  If  the  queen,  on 
her  marriage,  had  put  all  her  lands  into  Hotchpot ;  then, 
indeed — and  it  seemeth,  saith  Littleton,  that  this  word 
Hotchpot  is,  in  English,  a  pudding 

Quid.     You  reason  very  clearly,  Mr.  Codicil,  upon  th« 


ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES.  163 

rights  of  tbe  powers  of  war ;  and  so  now,  if  you  will,  1 
am  ready  to  talk  a  little  of  my  affairs. 

Cod.  Nor  does  the  matter  rest  here ;  for  how  can  she 
set  up  a  claim,  when  she  has  made  a  conveyance  to  the 
house  of  Brandenburgh  ?  The  law,  Mr.  Quidnunc,  is 
very  severe  against  fraudulent  conveyance.  ( Codicil  con- 
tinues^  and  Quidnunc  becomes  very  impatient^ 

Quid.     'Sbodkins,  you  have  satisfied  me  I 

Cod.  Why,  therefore,  then  if  he  will  levy  fines,  and 
suffer  a  common  recovery,  he  can  bequeath  it  as  he  likes, 
in  feodum  simplex^  provided  he  takes  care  to  put  it  in  his 
sis  heris. 

Quid.  I  am  heartily  glad  of  it.  So  that,  with  regard 
to  my  effects 

Cod.  Why,  then^  suppose  she  was  to  bring  it  to  a 
trial  at  bar 

Quid.  I  say,  with  regard  to  the  full  disclosure  of  my 
effects 

Cod.  What  would  she  get  by  that?  It  would  go  off 
upon  a  special  pleading ;  and,  as  to  equity 

Quid.  Pray,  must  I  now  surrender  my  books  and  my 
pamphlets? 

Cod.  What  would  equity  do  for  her?  Equity  can't 
relieve  her :  he  might  keep  her  at  least  twenty  years  be- 
fore a  master,  to  settle  the  account 

Quid.  You  have  made  me  easy  about  the  Protestants 
in  this  war — you  have  indeed.  So  that,  with  regard  to 
my  appearing  before  the  commissioners 

Cod.     And  as  to  the  ban  of  the  empire,  he  may  demur 
to  that ;  for  all  tenures  by  knight-service  are  abolished 
and  the  statute  12,  Charles  IL,  has  declared  all  lands  i^ 
be  held  under  a  common  socage. 

Quid.  Pray,  now,  Mr.  Codicil,  must  not  my  creditors 
appear  to  prove  my  debts  ? 

Cod.  Why,  therefore,  then,  if  they're  held  in  com- 
mon socage,  I  submit  it  to  the  court,  whether  the  empire 
can  have  any  claim  to  knight-service.  They  can't  call 
on  him  for  a  single  man  for  the  wars — unum  hominem 
ad  guerram.  For  what  is  common  socage? — socagium 
idem  est  quod  servitium  soccce — the  service  of  the  plough. 

Quid.  Vm  ready  to  attend  to  them ;  but,  pray,  now, 
when  my  certificate  is  signed — it  is  of  great  consequence 


164  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

to  me  to  know  this — I  say,  sir,  when  my  certificate  is 
signed,  mayn't  I  then — Hey  I  hey !  what  do  I  hear  ? 

Cod.  I  apprehend — I  humbly  conceive — when  your 
certificate  is  signed 

Quid.  Hold  your  tongue  I  Did  I  not  hear  the  "  Ga- 
zette?'' 

Newsman.  {Without)  Great  newd  in  the  ^^ London 
Gazette!'' 

Quid.  Yes,  yes,  it  is — it  is  the  "  Gazette " — it  is  the 
'"Gazette!" 

Cod.  The  law,  in  that  case,  Mr.  Quidnunc,  prima 
facie 

Quid.  I  can't  hear  you ; — I  have  not  time.  {Endeav- 
ors to  pass  out.) 

Cod.     I  say,  sir,  it  is  held  in  the  Ijooks 

Quid.  I  care  for  no  books;  I  want  the  '^Gazette." 
(Stamping  his  foot.) 

Cod.      Throughout  all  the  books {Quid  rushes 

out.)  Bo!  the  man's  non  compos;  and  his  friends,  in- 
stead of  a  commission  of  bankruptcy,  should  take  out  a 
commission  of  lunacy. 


DIALOGUE   LIIl. 

A  NAUTICAL  EXAMINATION. 


Examiner.  How  would  you  scud  a  ship  under  bare 
poles,  in  a  gale  of  wind  ? 

Candidate.  I  should  get  the  fore  and  main-yards  a- 
cock-bill,  rib  in  the  jib-boom,  put  the  helm  hard-up,  lash 
the  cook  and  steward  to  the  tafferel,  with  their  heads 
clean  shaven,  and  let  her  go.  That  is  what  I  call  scud- 
ding a  ship  under  bare  poles. 

Exam.  When  scudding  under  bare  poles  in  a  hurri- 
cane, how  would  you  go  to  work  to  bring  the  ship  to  the 
wind,  and  lay  her  to  ? 

Can.  I  would  cut  away  the  mizzen-mast,  take  a  good 
swig  at  the  main-brace,  lash  the  helm  hard-a-port,  and 
call  all  hands  to  give  three  cheers ! 

Exam.  Very  well,  indeed.  Can  you  pudden  an  an- 
chor, or  gammon  a  bowsprit  ? 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  165 

Can.  No ;  but  I  can  dispose  of  a  pudding,  or  stow 
away  a  gammon  of  bacon,  with  any  old  salt  who  ever 
turned  a  quid. 

Exam.  Under  what  circumstances  should  you  con- 
sider it  necessary  to  box-haul  a  ship?  And  how  would 
you  do  it? 

Cyin.  This  should  be  done  only  on  the  approach  of  a 
thunder-squall,  and  it  is  a  delicate  manoeuver.  Sway  up 
tho  spanker-peak,  and  lash  the  boom  amidships,  let  fly 
the  jib-sheets,  square  the  fore  and  main-yards  by  the 
lifts  and  braces,  send  a  stout  hand  aloft  to  loose  the  main- 
royal,  jam  the  helm  a-lee,  and  let  the  thunder-gust  come! 
You  will  find  yourself  in  a  bad  box — and  this  is  called 
box-hauling. 

Exam.  Can  you  work  a  mousing,  man-fashion,  on  the 
collar  of  the  main-stay  ? 

Can.  I  am  not  so  certain  of  that ;  but  I  can  clap  a 
mousing  on  the  cook's  head  with  a  handspike. 

Exam.     How  do  you  heave  a  ship  in  stays  ? 

Can.  Order  every  man  to  his  station :  the  cook  to 
the  fore-sheet,  and  the  boatswain  to  dance  a  hornpipe  on 
the  capstan-head ;  and,  when  the  skipper  sings  out, 
"Hard-a-lee,"  let  every  man  shout  with  all  the  strength 
of  his  lungs,  "Let  go  and  haul !  " 

Exam.  Can  you  clear  a  ship's  hause  when  there  is  a 
round  turn  in  the  cables  ? 

Can.  I  dare  say  I  can ;  and,  what  is  more,  I  can  ride 
a  Flemish  horse  without  saddle,  martingale,  stirrup,  or 
bridle. 

Exam.     Can  you  tell  me  how  to  work  a  traverse  ? 

Can.  Yes;  Tom  Cox's  traverse — up  one  hatchway 
and  down  the  other. 

Exam.  How  do  you  perform  the  evolution  of  club- 
hauling? 

Can.  Hoist  the  broad  pennant  at  the  jib-boom  end, 
and  sway  up  the  cabin-boy  to  the  end  of  the  fore-top- 
mast studding-sail  boom ;  cut  away  the  best  bower-anchor, 
and  knock  down  with  a  heaver  the  first  man  you  can 
hit.     That  is  what  is  meant  by  club-hauling. 

Exam.  Did  you  ever  see  a  bumpkin  on  board  ship 
without  whiskers  ? 

Can.     Yes ;  Jonathan  Flail,  on  board  the  bark  Pow- 


166  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

derhorn.  Both  sides  of  his  cheek  were  as  smooth  as  the 
palm  of  my  hand. 

Exam.  How  would  you  manage  to  raise  a  breeze 
when  it  was  a  dead  calm  ? 

Can.  Put  all  hands  on  half-allowance,  and  set  them 
at  work  scraping  the  topmasts  and  cleaning  the  ship's 
bottom,  without  allowing  them  even  a  dog's  watch.  If 
that  does  not  raise  a  breeze,  whistle  "Hey,  Betty  Martin, 
tip-toe  fine,"  until  you  see  a  cat's-paw  stretching  across 
the  water. 

Exam.  Who  has  the  hardest  time  on  board  a  ship  at 
sea? 

Can,  The  "  sweet  little  cherub  "  which  keeps  watch 
while  sitting  up  aloft. 

Exam.     Who  has  the  hardest  time  in  port  ? 

Can.  The  little  nun-buoy,  who  keeps  watching  the 
anchor,  and  is  never  relieved,  excepting  to  be  bled. 

Exam.     Why  is  a  ship  like  a  hen  ? 

Can.     Because  she  often  keeps  cackling. 

Exam.     Why  is  a  ship  like  a  well-bred  Frenchman  ? 

Can.     Because  she  prides  herself  on  her  graceful  bows. 

Exam,.     Why  is  a  ship  like  a  comet? 

Can.  Because  she  moves  rapidly  along,  and  leaves  a 
brilliant  and  sometimes  a  marvelously  crooked  wake  be- 
hind. 

Exam.  Why  is  a  ship  like  the  keeper  of  a  livery 
stable  ? 

Can.  Because  she  is  well  provided  with  horses,  bridles, 
saddles,  stirrups,  whips,  and  martingales. 

Exam.  What  animal  does  a  ship  most  remind  you 
of? 

Can.  A  cat.  Because  she  has  cat-heads,  cat-harpings, 
cat-blocks,  is  partial  to  cat's-paws,  and  is  often  provided 
with  a  cat-o'-nine-tails. 

Exam.     What  do  you  mean  by  cat-harpings  ? 

Can.  Cat-harpings  is  undoubtedly  a  corruptior  of 
cat's-harpstrings,  meaning  catgut. 

Exam.  Yery  well  explained.  Is  there  ever  a  dog  on 
board  ship. 

Can.  Always ;  and  he  keeps  the  watch  from  six  to 
eight  o'clock  in  the  evening.  He  also  looks  closely  after 
the  wind,  and  is  sometimes  called  a  dog- vane. 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  167 

Exam.  I  wish  to  ask  you  one  more  question.  Why 
A  a  ship  like  a  woman  ? 

Can.  Because  she  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  piece? 
of  nature  or  art ;  looks  best  with  a  neat  figure-head  ;  ia 
proud  of  her  fine  and  well-fitted  rigging;  takes  delight 
in  ear-rings,  jewels,  and  gingerbread  work;  makes  use 
of  stays  to  keep  upright ;  moves  with  a  swimming  gait ; 
wears  caps,  to  which  are  fastened  many  strings,  and  occa- 
sionally claps  on  a  bonnet;  besides,  it  is  desirable  that 
she  should  be  well  mated  and  properly  manned;  for,  if 
left  to  her  own  guidance,  she  would  soon  founder  on  the 
ocean,  or  be  wrecked  upon  the  rocks. 

Exam.  Well  done!  You  answer  like  a  real  sailor. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  that  you  possess  all  the  qualifica 
tions  necessary  to  command  an  Indiaman.  Clerk,  make 
out  this  man's  certificate. 


DIALOGUE   LIV, 

HARD  TO  SUrr  ALL. 


Schoolmaster  ;  Isaac,  a  school-hoy ;  Mr.  Fosdick  ;  Bill,  Am  son ; 
Mrs.  O'Clary,  Irish  ;  Patrick,  her  son  ;  Esq.  Snyder  ;  Jonas, 
his  son ;  Saunders,  drunlcen  ;  Jabez,  his  son  ;  some  half-dozen 
schooUhoys. 

Master.  (Setting  copies^  alone.)  Well,  so  here  I  am 
again,  after  another  night's  sleep.  But,  sleep  or  no  sleep, 
I  feel  about  as  much  fatigued  in  the  morning  as  I  do  at 
night.  It  is  impossible  to  get  the  cares  and  anxieties  of 
my  profession  out  of  my  mind.  It  does  seem  to  me  that 
the  parents  of  some  of  my  pupils  are  very  unfeeling ; 
for  I  know  I  have  done  my  very  best  to  keep  a  good 
school — and,  however  I  may  have  failed  in  some  in- 
stances, I  have  the  satisfaction  of  feeling,  in  my  con- 
science, that  mj  best  endeavors  have  been  devoted  to 
my  work.  A  merry  lot  of  copies  here,  to  be  set  before 
school-time.  {Looking  at  his  watch.)  But  "a  diligent 
hand  will  accomplish  much;"  by  the  way,  that  will 
do  for  a  copy  for  Jonas  Snyder — little  culprit!  he 
was  very  idle  yesterday.  {Thinking  and  writing.)  What 
can  that  story  mean,  which  Mr   Truetell  told  me  this 


168  ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES. 

morning?  Five  or  six! — who  could  they  be? — five  or 
six  of  the  parents  of  my  scholars  dreadfully  offended  I 
Let  me  see ;  what  have  I  done  ?  Nothing,  very  lately, 
that  I  recollect.  Let's  see — ^yesterday?  no,  there  was 
nothing  yesterday,  except  that  I  detained  the  class  in 
geography  till  they  got  their  lessons.  Oh,  yes ;  Jonas 
Snyder  was  punished  for  idleness.  But  I  spoke  to  him 
four  or  five  times,  and  he  would  do  nothing  but  whisper, 
and  whittle  his  bench ;  and,  when  at  last  he  half  eat  up 
an  apple,  and  threw  the  rest  at  Jacob  Eeadslow,  I  thought 
he  deserved  it.  Let's  see ;  I  gave  him  six  claps — three 
on  each  hand  ;  well,  he  did  not  get  more  than  his  deserts. 
{Enter  one  of  the  scholars^  with  his  hooks  under  his  arm^ 
walking  slowly^  and  eyeing  the  master^  to  his  seat.  Master^ 
still  bicsy,  and  thinking^  by  and  by  says :)  Isaac,  you  may 
come  to  me. 

(He  walks  along,  and  says :)  Sir  I 

Master.  Do  you  remember  {placing  his  pen  over  his 
ear,  and  turning  ecwnestly  and  portentously  round,)  whether 
I  punished  any  scholars  yesterday  ? 

Isaac.  Yes,  sir ;  you  feruled  Jone  Snyder,  for  playing 
and  laughing. 

Master.     Did  I  punish  any  one  else  ? 

Isaac.     Not  as  I  recollect. 

Master.     Think,  Isaac  ;  think  carefully. 

Isan£.  You  kept  a  lot  of  us  after  school,  for  not  say- 
ing our  lessons 

Master.  {Quickly)  You  mean,  Isaac,  rather,  I  kept 
you  to  get  your  lessons,  which  you  had  neglected  ? 

Isaac.  Yes,  sir ;  and  you  made  Patrick  O'Clary  stop 
and  sweep,  because  he  stayed  out  too  late  after  recess. 

Master.     Oh,  yes  !  I  remember  that. 

Isaac.  He  was  as  mad  as  a  hop  about  it.  He  said  he 
meant  to  tell  his  mother  that  you  made  him  sweep  for 
nothing. 

Master.  Hush !  hush !  You  shouldn't  tell  tales  I 
Do  you  remember  any  other  punishments  ? 

Isaac.  No,  sir ;  not  yesterday.  You  hit  Jabe  Saun- 
ders a  clip  over  the  knuckles  with  the  cowskin,  day 
before  yesterday  ; — don't  you  remember  ? — -just  as  he 
stretched  out  his  hand  to  hook  that  old  rag  upon  Tom 
Willis'  collar,  you  came  along  behind  him,  and  clip  went 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  169 

the  old  "whip,  right  across  his  fingers,  and  down  went 
the  old  rag.  There,  I  never  was  more  glad  to  see  any 
thing  in  my  life !  Little,  dirty,  mean  fellow ! — he's 
always  sticking  things  upon  iellows.  I  saw  him  once  pin 
an  old  dirty  rag  upon  a  man's  coat,  just  as  he  was  putting 
a  letter  into  the  post-office.     I  never  saw  such  a  fellow  ! 

{The  other  hoys  coming  in  gradually^  the  master  rings 
his  little  bell,  and  says :)  Boys,  come  to  order,  and  take 
your  books.  Now,  boys,  I  wish  to  see  if  we  can't  have 
a  good  school  to-day.     Let's  see ;  are  we  all  here  ? 

Boys.     No  sir  I     No  sir  I 

Master.     Who  is  absent  ? 

Boys.  Jone  Snyder  !  Jabe  Saunders  I  Patrick  O'Cla- 
ry !  and 

Master.  Speak  one  at  a  time,  my  boys.  Don't  make 
confusion,  to  begin  with  ;  and — {looking  around  them,) — 
oh  I  Bill  Fosdick — only  four  I 

One  of  the  hoys.  Pat  O'Clary  is  late.  I  saw  him 
down  in  Baker-street,  poking  along  I  He  always  comes 
late 

Master.     Did  he  say  he  was  coming? 

Same  Boy.  I  asked  him  if  he  was  coming  to  school, 
and  he  shook  his  head,  and  muttered  out  something 
about  his  mother,  and  I  ran  along  and  left  him. 

Master.  Well,  boys,  now  let  us  try  to  have  a  still 
school  and  close  study  to-day,  and  see  if  it  is  not  more 
pleasant  to  learn  than  to  play.  {Rises  and  walks  to  and 
fro  on  the  stage.)  Take  the  geography  lesson,  James 
and  Samuel,  first  thing  this  morning ;  and,  Isaac,  I  don't 
wish  to  detain  you  again  to-day.     {Loud  knock  at  the  door.) 

{Enter  Bill  Fosdick,  walking  importantly  and  conse- 
quentially up  to  the  master,  and  saying :)  Here  I  father  wants 
to  see  you  at  the  door ! 

{Master  turns  to  go  to  the  door,  followed  hy  BUI,  who 
iKishes  to  hear  all  that^s  said,  and  Mr.  Fosdick,  looking 
quite,  savage,  steps  right  inside— the  master  polUely  homing, 
with  a  "  good-morning.''^) 

Fosdick.  Here,  sir ;  I  want  to  see  you  about  my  boy  I 
1  don't  like  to  have  you  keep  him  after  school  every 
day ;  I  want  him  at  home — and  I  should  like  to  have 
you  dismiss  him  when  school  is  done.  If  he  wants 
lickin',  lick  him — that's  all ;  but   don't  you  keep  him 


170  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

here  an  hour  or  two  every  day  after  school — I  don't  send 
him  here  for  that ! 

Maste?'.  But,  my  good  sir,  I  have  not  often  detained 
him ;  not  more  than  twice  within  a  fort 

Fos.     Well,  don't  you  do  it  again — that's  all ! 

Master.  But,  sir,  I  have  only  detained  him  to  learn 
the  lessons  which  he  might  learn  in  school ;  and  surely, 
if 

Fos.  Well,  well,  sir !  don't  you  do  it  again ! — that's 
all  I  have  to  say !  If  he  behaves  bad,  you  lick  him — 
only  do  it  in  reason ;  but,  when  school  is  done,  I  want 
him  dismissed ! 

Master.  Sir,  I  do  what  I  conceive  to  be  my  duty ; 
and  I  serve  all  my  scholars  alike ;  and,  while  I  would  be 
wiUing  to  accommodate  you,  I  shall  do  what  I  think  is 
my  duty.  {Gathering  spirit  and  gravity,  and  advancing.) 
Sir,  do  I  understand  you  wish  me  to  whip  your  son  for 
not  getting  his  lesson  ? 

Fos.  Yes — no — yes — in  reason  ;  I  don't  want  my 
children's  bones  broke ! 

Master.  {Taking  from  the  desk  a  cowhide.)  Do  you 
prefer  your  son  should  be  whipped  to  being  de- 
tained ? 

Fos.  I  don't  think  not  getting  his  lessons  is  such  a 
dreadful  crime.  I  never  used  to  get  my  lessons,  and  old 
Master  Peppermint  never  used  to  lick  me,  and  I  am  sure 
he  never  kept  me  after  school;  but  we  used  to  have 
schools  good  for  sumfin  in  them  days.  Bill,  go  to  your 
seat,  and  behave  yourself !  and,  when  school  is  done,  you 
come  home  I     That's  all  I  have  to  say  ! 

Master.  But  stop,  my  boy !  {/Speaking  to  Bill,  de- 
cidedly.) There  happen  to  be  two  sides  to  this  question  I 
There  is  something  further  to  be  said,  before  you  go  to 
your  seat  in  this  school. 

Fos.  What !  you  don't  mean  to  turn  him  out  of 
school,  du  ye  ?     {Somebody  knocks.) 

{A  boy  steps  to  the  door,  and  in  steps  Mrs.  0^ Clary,  who, 
ajiproaching  Mr.  Fosdick,  says:)  Is  it  you  that's  the 
schoolmaster,  sure?  It's  I  that's  after  spaking  to  tlie 
Bch  oolmaster.     ( Coitrte^ying. ) 

Fos.     No  ;  I'm  no  schoolmaster. 

Master.     What  is  your  wish,  madam  ? 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  171 

Mrs.  O  Clary,  I  wants  to  spake  witli  the  scnoolmas- 
ter,  I  do,  sir.     (Courtesys.) 

Master.  Well,  madam,  (rapping  to  keep  the  hoys  still, 
who  are  disposed  to  laugh,)  I  am  the  schoolmaster.  What 
is  your  wish  ? 

Mrs.  OG.  Why,  sir,  my  little  spalpeen  of  a  son  goes 
to  this  school,  he  does ;  and  he  says  he's  made  to  swape 
every  day,  he  is ;  and  it's  all  for  nothing,  he  tills  me  ; 
and  sure  I  don't  like  it,  I  don't ;  and  I'm  kim  to  com- 
plain to  ye,  I  have  I  It's  Patrick  O'Clary  that  I'm 
spaking  of ;  and  it's  I  that's  his  mither,  I  be;  and  his 

Eoor  father  was  Paddy  O'Clary  from  Cork,  it  was — rest 
is  sowl ! 

Master.  Well,  madam,  he  has  never  swept  but  once, 
I  believe  ;  and  that,  surely,  was  not  without  a  good  rea- 
son. 

Mrs.  O  G.  But  himself  tells  a  different  story,  he  does ; 
and  I  niver  knew  him  till  but  one  lie,  in  my  life,  I  didn't; 
and  that  was  as  good  as  none.  But  the  little  spalpeen 
shall  be  after  tilling  his  own  stowry,  he  shall  I  for  it  s  he 
that's  waiting  in  the  entry,  and  will  till  ye  no  lie,  at  all, 
at  all — upon  that  ye  may  depind !  though  it's  his  mither 
that  says  it,  and  sure!  {Galls.)  Patrick!  Patrick!! 
Patrick ! !  1  My  dear,  here's  your  mither  wants  ye  to 
come  in,  and  till  Master  how  it's  you  that's  kept  to 
swape  ivry  day,  and  it's  all  for  nothing,  it  is !  Come  in, 
I  say,  in  a  jiffy !  {Patrick,  scratching  his  head,  enters.) 
Here's  your  mither,  dear!  now  till  your  master — and 
till  the  truth — didn't  ye  till  your  mither  that  ye  had  to 
swape  ivry  day  for  nothing ;  and  it's  you  that's  going  to 
be  kept  swaping  ivry  day  for  a  month  to  come,  and 
sure? 

Mazier.     Now  tell  the  truth,  Patrick. 

Patrick.     (Looking  at  his  mother.)     No;  I  niver  said 
no  such  words,  and  sure 
yisterday,  for  staying  out 
bout  it,  at  all,  at  all  I 

Mrs.  O  G.  "  Cush  la  macree  1 "  Little  sonny,  how  you 
talk  1  He's  frightened,  he  is,  and  sure  I  {Turning  to 
Fosdick.)  He's  always  bashful  before  company,  he  is. 
But,  Master,  it's  I  that  don't  like  to  have  him  made  to 
swape  the  school,  indade;  and,  if  you  can  do  nothing 


I     I  said  how  I's  kept  to  swape 
it  too  late ;  and  that  s  all  I  said 


172  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

else,  I  shall  be  in  sad  taking,  I  shall,  and  sure  !  If  you 
should  be  after  bating  him,  I  should  make  no  complaint  _ 
For  I  bates  him  myself,  whiniver  he  lies  to  his  mither-  - 
a  little  spalpeen  that  he  is !  But  I  can't  bear  to  have 
him  raade  to  do  the  humbling  work  of  swaping,  at  all,  at 
idl;  and  it's  I. that  shall  make  a  "clish  ma  claver,"  an' 
it's  not  stopped — indade  I  shall !     {Somebody  knocks.) 

{Isaac  steps  to  the  door^  and,  returning,  says:)  Esq. 
Snyder  wishes  to  see  you,  sir. 

Master.  {Smiling.)  Well,  ask  Mr.  Snyder  to  step  in  ; 
we  may  as  well  have  a  regular  court  of  it ! 

{Isaac  waits  upon  him  in,  leading  Jonas,  with  his  hands 
poulticed.) 

Master.  {Smiling.)  Good-morning,  Mr.  Snyder  ;  walk 
in,  sir ! 

Mr.  Snyder.  {Rather  gentlemanly^  I  hope  you  will 
excuse  my  interrupting  your  school;  but  I  called  to 
inquire  what  Jonas,  here,  could  have  done,  that  you 
bruised  him  up  at  such  a  rate.  Poor  little  fellow  1  he 
came  home,  taking  on  as  if  his  heart  would  break !  and 
both  his  hands  swelled  up  bigger  than  mine!  and  he 
said  you  had  been  beating  him,  for  nothing!  I  thought 
I'd  come  up  and  inquire  into  it ;  for  I  don't  hold  to  this 
banging  and  abusing  children,  and  especially  when  they 
haven't  done  any  thing;  though  I'm  a  friend  to  good 
order. 

Master.  I  was  not  aware  that  I  punished  him  very 
severely,  sir. 

Mr.  Snyder.  Oh  I  it  was  dreadfully  severe  I  Why, 
the  poor  little  fellow's  hands  pained  him  so  that  his 
mother  had  to  poultice  them,  and  sit  up  with  him  all 
night!  And  this  morning  she  wanted  to  come  up  to 
school  with  him  herself;  but  I  told  her  I  guessed  she 
better  let  me  come.  Jonas,  do  your  hands  ache  now, 
dear? 

Jonas.  {Holding  them  both  out  together.)  Oh !  dread- 
fully I     They  feel  as  if  they  were  in  the  fire ! 

Mr.  Snyder.  Well,  dear,  keep  composed;  don't  cry, 
dear.  Now,  sir,  {addressing  the  master,)  this  was  all  foi 
nothing  I 

Master.  No,  sir  !  It  was  for  something,  I  am  think- 
ing I 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  173 

Jonas.  I  siay  I  did  not  do  nothing  I  so  there,  now  I 
{^Somebody  knocks.) 

Master.  Gentlemen,  sit  down.  {Looking  perplexed.) 
Sit  down,  madam.  Give  me  a  little  time,  and  I'll  en- 
deavor to  set  the  matter  right.  {All  sitting  down  hut  the 
hoys.) 

Mr.  Snyder.  Why,- 1  don't  wish  to  make  a  serious 
matter  of  it.  I  shan  t  prosecute  you.  I  was  only  going 
to  ask  if  you  couldn't  devise  some  other  kind  of  punish- 
ment than  pommeling.  If  you'd  make  him  stop  after 
school,  or  set  him  to  sweeping  the  house,  or  scouring  the 
benches,  or  even  whipped  him  with  a  cowhide  or  switch - 
stick,  I  should  not  have  complamed  ;  but  I  don't  like  this 
beating  boys  I     {Knocking  again.) 

Master.     Isaac,  go  and  see  who  is  at  the  door. 

{Isaac  goes^  and  in  stalks  Saunders  and  his  son  Ja- 
bez.) 

Saunders.  {Bowing  and  flourishing.)  Here !  hallo  I 
Here,  I  say,  Mr.  Schoolmaster !  settle  up  the  score  as  ye 
goes  along  I  I  say,  {snatching  a  cowhide,)  you  have  been 
horsewhipping  my  boy  here,  ha'nt  your  By  the  fifteen 
gallon  law  I  you  don't  come  that  game  over  the  son  of 
Nehemiah  Saunders,  you  see!  you  pale-faced,  good-for- 
nothing  I but  pardon  me.  Master ;  I  ax  your  pardon ; 

for  'Miah  Saunders  always  was,  and  always  will  be,  a 
gintleman  I  Ye  see — don't  ye  see  ? — {hiccoughing — lifts 
off  the  hat) — ye  see — I'll  tell  ye  what.  Master  ! — if  Fd 
only  known  it  yesterday,  ye  see,  I'd  a  been  here  and — 
butr — ye  see — ^yesterday — I  was  very  particularly  en- 
gaged ;  but  now,  {approaching,  and  switching  the  cowhide.) 
ye  see,  we'll  know  who's  the  strongest  I  I'll  give 
you 

Mrs.  OG.  {Screeching.)  La!  what  shall  I  do?  If 
there's  a  going  to  be  fighting,  by  St.  Patrick,  I  shall  go 
into  hysterics  !     Oh  dear !  dear ! !  dear !  1 1 

Master.     Oh  !  don't  be  frightened,  madam. 

Saunders.  {Looking  at  the  woman.)  Oh  I  ha  I  ha! 
Why,  Cathleen  O'Clary — ye  see — why,  have  you  left 
your  wash-tub  to  go  to  school  ?  Why,  bless  my  heart  I 
Why,  ye  see,  bless  me ! — the  master  here  will  have  a 
most  tractable  pupil  in  you,  Cathleen  I  Why,  my  stars  I 
ye  see — and  here  is  my  neighbor  Fosdick  I  whv,  how  de 

15* 


174  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

du,  neighbor  Fosdick?  {Bowing  very  low  to  Snyder) 
How  do  you  do,  Esq.  Snyder  ?  Why,  I  hope  I  ha'nt 
been  disturbing  a  court,  nor  nothing!  {Rubbing  his 
head,  c&c.)  The  truth  is,  1  felt  dreadfully  provoked, 
when  I  heard  that  Master  here  had  been  whipping  my 
9on  with  a  rawhide,  like  a  horse ;  and,  says  I,  I  don't 
sleep  till  I  have  whipped  him — and  all  for  nothing,  too  ! 
I've  nothing  against  licking,  Mr.  Schoolmaster,  if  you  use 
the  right  kind  of  licking.  Ferule  a  boy,  or  give  him  a 
stick,  till  he  cries  "Enough !"  but  none  of  your  horse- 
whipping, I  say  1 — ye  see — I  can't  stand  that  I  {During 
this  speech,  Jabe  archly  hangs  an  old  rag  upon  his  faiher^s 
coat,  and  steps  back,  and  laughs  at  it.) 

Mr.  Fosdick.  (Who  saw  it)  Mr,  Saunders,  what  is 
that  you've  got  upon  your  coat  ?     {Examining.) 

Saunders.  On  my  coat  ? — where  ?  {LooJcSj  and  after 
a  while  finds  it,  and  says,  in  awful  rage:)  Who  did 
that? 

Fos.     It  was  your  hopeful  son,  there. 

Saunders.  You  little  villain  of  a  scamp  I  {Attempt' 
ing  to  hit  him  with  the  whip,  but  staggering,  fails)  I'll  whip 
the  hide  all  off  of  you,  I  will !  Master,  he's  in  your 
house ;  order  him  to  me,  and  I'll  show  you  how  to  use 
the  cowhide  I 

Master.  Be  calm,  sir;  be  calm.  Will  you  be  good 
enough  to  sit  down  ?  You  are  a  gentleman,  you  say ; 
then  oblige  me  by  sitting  down  between  these  two  gen- 
tlemen. 

Saunders.  That  I  will.  I'll  oblige  any  gentleman. 
{After  many  attempts,  gets  to  the  seat.) 

Master.  And  now,  gentlemen,  and  {bowing)  madam, 
I  think  we  may  each  of  us  begin  to  see  the  beauty  of 
variety,  especially  in  the  matter  of  opinion.  That  you 
may  all  understand  the  whole  case,  I  will  state,  in  a  few 
words,  the  facts,  as  they  actually  occurred.  Day  before 
yesterday,  our  young  friend  Jabez  {pointing  to  him)  was 
playing  his  favorite  trick  of  hanging  his  rag-signal  upon 
a  school-mate,  after  the  fashion  in  which  he  has  here  so 
filially  served  his  father,  within  a  few  minutes;  and, 
standing  near  him  at  the  time,  with  my  whip  in  hand,  I 
could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  salute  his  mischievous 
knuckles  with  a  well-directed  stroke,  which,   however 


JSNTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  175 

effectually  it  may  have  cut  his  own  fingers  and  his 
father's  sensibilities,  it  seems  has  not  cut  off  his  ruling 
propensity.  Yesterday  was  emphatically  a  day  of  sin- 
ning on  my  part.  Jonas  Snyder,  whose  little  hands 
hav(}  swelled  to  such  enormous  magnitude,  for  constant 
idleness  was  often  reproved ;  and,  after  all  this,  when  he 
threw  a  portion  of  an  apple  at  a  more  industrious  boy, 
thus  disturbing  many  of  those  well-disposed  boys,  he  was 
called  and  feruled,  receiving  six  strokes — three  on  each 
hand — with  the  rule  I  now  show  you.  Little  Patrick 
O'Clary  was  required  to  sweep  the  school-room  floor,  for 
a  strong  instance  of  tardiness  at  recess ;  and  this  punish- 
ment was  given,  because  I  did  not  wish  to  inflict  a  se- 
verer one  upon  so  small  a  lad.  And  last,  this  little  fellow 
{pointing  to  Bill  Fosdick)  was  detained,  in  common  with 
seven  others,  to  learn  a  lesson  which  he  neglected  to  learn 
at  the  proper  time. 

Such  are  the  facts.  And  yet  each  of  you  has  assured 
me  that  I  have  incurred  your  displeasure  by  using  a  pun- 
ishment you  disapprove,  and  "  all  for  nothing."  You 
have  each  one  taken  the  trouble  to  come  to  this  room,  to 
render  my  task — already  sufficiently  perplexing — still 
more  so,  by  giving  parental  support  to  childish  com 
plaints,  and  imparting  your  censure,  in  no  measured 
terms,  upon  the  instructor  of  your  children.  But  this  is 
a  most  interesting  case.  You  all  happen  to  be  here  to- 
gether, and  you  thus  give  me  the  opportunity  I  have  long 
wished,  to  show  you  your  own  inconsistencies. 

It  is  easy  to  complain  of  your  teacher ;  but  perhaps 
either  of  you,  in  your  wisdom,  would  find  it  not  quite  so 
easy  to  take  my  place  and  escape  censure.  How  would 
either  of  you  have  got  along  in  the  present  instance  ? 
Mr.  Fosdick,  who  is  displeased  with  detention  after  school, 
would  have,  according  to  his  own  recommendation, 
resorted  to  "  licking,"  either  with  ferule  or  whip.  In  this 
case  he  would  have  incurred  the  censure  of  his  friends, 
Esq.  Snyder  and  Mr.  Saunders.  The  "  squire,"  in  turn, 
would  have  raised  the  displeasure  of  both  his  friends,  bv 
resorting  to  his  favorite  mode  of  detaining  and  cowliia- 
ing.  Mistress  O'Clary  would  give  the  "spalj)eens"  a 
"  bating,"  as  she  says,  after  her  own  peculiar  fashion, 
with  which  the  squire  and  Mr.  Saunders  could  not  have 


176  ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES. 

been  overmuch  pleased.  And  Mr.  Saunders — aye,  Mr. 
'Miah  Saunders — if  we  may  judge  from  the  exhibition 
he  has  just  given  us,  would  have  displeased  even  him- 
self, by  proving  to  be  what  he  most  of  all  things  detests 
— a  champion  of  the  cowhide.  But  what  is  a  little 
<^iirious,  as  it  appears,  is  that,  while  I  have  not  carried 
out  the  favorite  scheme  of  either  one  of  you — which,  wo 
have  already  seen,  would  be  objectionable  to  each  of  the 
others — but  have  adopted  a  variety  of  punishments,  and 
the  very  variety  which  your  own  collective  suffrage 
would  fix  upon,  I  have  got  myself  equally  deep  into  hot 
water  ;  and  the  grand  question  is  now.  What  shall  I  do  ? 
If  I  take  the  course  taken  by  you  collectively,  the  result 
is  the  same.  I  see  no  other  way  but  to  take  my  own 
course,  performing  conscientiously  my  duties,  in  their 
time  and  after  their  manners,  and  then  to  demand  of  you, 
and  all  others,  the  right  of  being  sustained ! 

Saunders.  {Jumping  up)  Them  is  my  sentiments, 
exactly !  Ye  see — I  say — ye  see — you  go  ahead,  and — 
ye  see — whip  that  little,  rascal  of  mine — ye  see — just  as 
much  as  you've  a  mind  to — {turning  to  the  squire^  who  is 
rising) — and  you  shall  have  this  whip  to  do  it  with 
{Handing  it  to  the  master) 

Mr.  Snyder.  Well,  gentlemen,  my  opinion  is  that  we 
have  been  tried  and  condemned  by  our  own  testimony, 
and  there  is  no  appeal.  My  judgment  approves  the  mas- 
ter ;  and  hereafter  I  shall  neither  hear  nor  make  any  more 
complaints.  Jonas,  {turning  to  Jonas)  my  son,  if  the 
master  is  willing,  you  may  go  home  and  tell  your  mother 
to  take  off  those  poultices,  and  then  do  you  come  to 
school  as  you  are  told  ;  and,  if  I  hear  any  more  of  your 
complaints,  I  will  double  the  dose  you  may  receive  at 
school. 

Mrs.  OG.  And  sure.  Master,  the  wife  of  Paddy 
O'Clary  is  not  the  woman  to  resist  authority  in  the  new 
country ;  and,  bless  your  sowl,  if  you'll  make  my  little 
spalpeen  but  a  good  boy,  it's  I  that  will  kindly  remem- 
ber the  favor,  though  ye  make  him  swape  until  next 
Christmas !  Here,  Patrick,  down  upon  the  little  knees 
of  your  own,  and  crave  the  master's  forgiveness;  for  it^a 
not  Cathleen  O'Clary 

Master.     No,  madam ;  that  I  shall  not  allow.     I  ask 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  177 

no  one  to  kneel  to  me.  I  shall  only  require  that  he  cor- 
rect his  past  faults,  and  obey  me  in  future. 

Mrs.  OC.  It's  an  ungrateful  child  he  would  be,  if 
ever  again  he  should  be  after  troubling  so  kind  a^nianter. 
St.  Patrick  bless  ye  I  {Taking  little  Pat  hy  the  hand^  they 
go  out.) 

Fos.  {Talcing  the  master  hy  the  hand,  ^>'ea''a/i^/^.)  Sir, 
I  hope  I  shall  profit  by  this  day's  lesson.  I  have  only  to 
Sfiy,  that  I  am  perfectly  satisfied  we  are  all  wrong ;  and 
that  is,  perhaps,  the  best  assurance  I  can  give  3^ou  that  I 
think  you  are  right.     That's  all  I  have  to  say. 

Saunders.  Right !  right !  neighbor  Fosdick.  We  are 
all — ye  see — we  are  all  come  out  on  the  wrong  side  this 
time  ;  a'nt  we,  squire  ?  I  tell  ye  what,  Mr.  Schoolmas- 
ter— 'Miah  Saunders  never  is  ashamed  to  back  out 
(suits  the  action^  &c.^)  when  he's  wrong  I  I  says,  I — ye 
see — 'Miah  Saunders  is  all  for  good  order  I  Whip  that 
boy  of  mine — ye  see — as  much  as  you  please  I  I'll  not 
complain  again — ye  see;  whip  him — says  I — ye  see — 
whip  him,  and  I — tell  ye — if  'Miah  Saunders  don't  back 
ye  up — then,  ye  see — may  I  be  chosen  president  of — 
cold  water  society  I     {Exit.) 


DIALOGUE    LV. 

STUDENT,    FARMER,    and   MINISTER. 


Student.  What  can  be  more  calculated  to  fill  the  mind 
with  pleasure  than  the  study  of  philosophy  and  astron- 
omy? For,  while  they  entertain  and  enlarge  our  under- 
standing, they  lead  us  to  contemplate  the  supreme  sourco 
.of  beauty  and  harmony.  Deity  himself. 

Farmer.  {Outside.)  Haw  buck  here,  whoa,  haw  whoa. 
(Enters.)  How  d'ye  do,  how  d'ye  do,  my  young 
friend  ? 

Student     Very  well,  I  thank  you,  how  are  you  ? 

Farmer.  I  don't  know,  moving  'bout  a  little,  but  1 
don't  know  but  I  have  'sturbed  you ;  you  seem  to  be 
talking  to  yourself 

Student.  Not  in  the  least,  sir.  I  was  contemplating 
the  beauties  of  creation,  and  admiring  the  order  in  whicn 


178  ENTEBTAINING    DIALOGUES. 

the  planets  move ;  but,  as  I  am  ever  fond  of  parental 
instruction,  I  shall  with  no  less  pleasure  listen  to  your 
observations. 

Farmer.  Well,  I'm  willing  to  tell  you  any  thing  I 
know,  and  there  ain't  many  more  sperienced,  though  T 
say  it  myself;  but  I  want  to  know  what  under  heaven 
there  is  in  creation  so  dreadful,  that  you  make  such  a 
bustle  about? 

Student.  Sir,  I  think  there  is  an  infinite  variety  of 
objects  to  entertain  the  rational  mind,  which  we  may 
contemplate,  and  still  find  ourselves  lost  in  the  works  of 
the  Creator. 

Farmer.  Why — why — why — I  s'pose  there's  some- 
thing 'markable  'nough  in  creation  ;  but,  for  my  part,  I 
can't  find  any  thing  so  dreadful  in  creation.  I  find  more 
profit  in  contriving  how  to  fat  my  pork  and  beef  in  one 
year,  than  in  thinking  'bout  creation  from  July  to  'tar- 
nity.  (Turning  around.)  Don't  let  that  ox  hook  the  old 
mare,  John. 

Student.  Those  employments  are  indeed  necessary,  and 
truly  commendable  ;  yet  I  find  I  have  an  opportunity  to 
improve  many  superior  pleasures,  which  demand  and 
force  my  admiration. 

Farmer.  O I  you're  one  of  them  colleges  larnt ;  I 
want  to  'spute  'long  with  some  of  you  noddies,  some 
time  ;  pray,  let  a  body  hear  what  them  'markable  things 
be? 

Student.  I  think  the  order  of  the  solar  system,  the 
regularity  in  which  the  planets  move  round  the  sun,  their 
center,  the  motion  of  the  earth,  which  occasions  that 
pleasing  variety  of  seasons,  afibrd  a  fullness  for  our  con- 
templation. 

Farmer.  The  motion  of  the  world ! — 'pon  my  word, 
your  college  wit's  got  something  new !  Do  you  mean 
this  great  masterly  world  ever  moves,  or  what  a  plague 
do  you  mean  ? 

Student.  I  had  reference  to  the  annual  and  diurnal 
motions  of  the  earth. 

Farmer.  "What  under  heaven  do  you  mean  by  your 
ludurnal  motion  ?     That's  something  new. 

Student.  ]  mean  revolving  on  its  own  axis,  from  west 
to  east,  once  in  twenty *"four  hours. 


ENTERTAINING   DIAIiOGUES.  IV  i) 

Farmer.  What  I  do  you  say  this  great  masterly  world 
turns  over  every  day,  and  nobody  know  nothing  'bout 
it?  If  this  world  turns  over,  what's  the  reason  my  mill- 
pond  never  got  upset,  and  all  the  water  spilt  out,  long 
ago  ?     Do  you  think  my  farm  ever  turned  over  ? 

Student.  Your  farm,  being  connected  with  the  rest  of 
the  globe,  undoubtedly  turns  with  it. 

Farmer.  What  do  you  say  ? — all  the  world  turns  over, 
and  my  farm  turns  too  ?  Though  I  s'pose  my  farm  lie^ 
about  in  the  middle  here,  so  'twouldn't  affect  that  so 
much  ;  but  what  if  any  body  should  get  close  to  the  edge, 
and  it  should  get  to  whirling  and  whirling,  I  guess 
'twould  make  their  hairs  whistle,  and  like  enough  'twould 
throw  them  ofi^. 

Student.  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  the  edge ; 
this  world  is  round,  like  an  orange. 

Farmer.  Why,  you  talk  more  and  more  like  a  fool. 
What !  this  world  round  ?  Don't  you  see  'tain't  round  ? 
Why,  'tis  as  flat  as  a  pancake. 

Student.  The  greatesf  philosophers  give  it  as  their 
opinion  that  it  is  round. 

Farmer.  What  do  you  think  I  care  what  your  boloso- 
phors  say,  when  I  know,  '■^hona  'pidaj''  'taint  so,  and  any 
other  half-witted  fool  might  know  better. 

Student.  Unless  you  bring  some  argument  to  confute 
theirs,  I  don't  see  why  you  should  disbelieve  them. 

Farmer.  Why,  I  know  'tain't  so ;  and  that's  reason 
enough.  What!  this  world  round,  and  folks  live  on't, 
and  turn  over  too  !  That's  a  plaguy  likely  story ;  but, 
if  you  want  to  hear  my  arguments,  you  shall  hear  them 
in  full.  How  d'ye  think  folks  can  stand  with  their  heads 
downward?  Why,  why,  if  this  world  should  only' turn 
up  edgeways,  all  our  houses,  and  walls,  and  fences  would 
get  slidin'  and  slidin',  and  as  soon  as  they  got  to  the  edge 
would  fall  down,  down,  down,  and  finally  would  never 
8top.     That  would  be  plaguy  good  'conomy. 

Student.  The  atmosphere  turns  with  us.  It  would  not 
affect  us  in  the  least ;  our  feet  would  point  to  the  center, 
as  they  now  do. 

Farmer.  Why,  yes,  'twould ;  if  any  body  should  get 
to  the  edge,  and  it  should  get  to  whirling  round,  'twould 
give  'em  a  plaguy  hist,  and  like  aF,  not  'twould  throw 


180  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

'em  off ;  and  that  ain't  all ;  'twould  make  their  heady 
swim  so  they  couldn't  stand.  What  d'ye  think  of  that, 
ha  ?  Why,  I  tell  ye  this  world  is  flat,  and  laid  on  its 
foundation,  or  it  couldn't  stand. 

Student.     What  supports  this  foundation? 

Farmer.  Hem  !  hem  I  hem ! — why,  how  a  plague  do 
you  think  I  know  ?  But  I  know  'tis  so ;  and  that's  rea- 
son enough.  But  what  do  you  ask  such  plaguy  foolish 
questions  for?  Any  body  knows  this  great  masterly 
world  could  not  stand  without  it  had  something  to  stand 
on. 

Student.  But,  if  it  has  a  foundation,  how  does  the  sun 
get  through  ? 

Farmer.  Hem !  hem  !  hem  ! — that's  another  plaguy 
foolish  question.  But  there's  no  difficulty  at  all  in  that. 
Why,  there's  a  hole  made  just  big  enough  for  the  sun  to 
get  through,  without  weakening  the  foundation. 

Student.  But  there's  one  more  difficulty ;  the  sun  is 
much  larger  than  this  earth,  and  therefore  must  destroy 
your  foundation.  » 

Farmer.  What  I  do  you  say  the  sun  is  bigger  than 
this  great  world  ?  You  great  foolhead !  'Tain't  a  bit 
bigger  than  a  cart-wheel. 

Student.  If  it  be  so  small,  how  can  it  light  this  whole 
earth,  when  it  is  so  far  from  us  ? 

Farmer.  Why,  hem !  hem  !  hem  ! — I  don't  raly  see 
into  that  myself;  but  then  I  don't  s'pose  'tis  such  a  des- 
put  ways  from  us ;  I  don't  think  'tis  more  than  a  mile 
and  a  half,  or  two  miles,  or  sich  a  business.  But  I  don't 
quite  see  how  it  gets  through  the  foundation,  I  confess. 

Student.  O,  I  just  see  into  it!  I  guess  it  don't  go 
through ;  only  just  gets  down  behind  the  trees,  out  of 
sight,  and  comes  right  back  again,  in  the  same  place,  and 
it  is  so  small  a  thing  we  can't  see  it  in  the  night. 

Farmer.  That's  about  as  cunning  as  the  rest  of  your 
talk ;  why,  you  plaguy  fool !  you  could  see  the  sun  in 
the  night  as  plain  as  you  could  a  star,  though  it  be  ever 
so  cloudy. 

Student.  Then  I  don't  see  but  you  must  give  up 
your 

Farmer.  Give  it  up?  Kot  I!  Think  I'll  give  up 
any  thing  that  I  know  ?     I've— less  me  see— how  old  is 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  181 

my  Niib  ? — I've  lived  in  thfe  place  sixty -four  yean< ;  and 
for  nine  years  I  was  first  corporal  in  the  company  ;  and 
for  twelve  years  I've  been  the  oldest  deacon  in  the 
church  ;  and  I  never  heard  of  the  world's  turning  over : 
'tis  impossible  for  it  to  go  so  fast  as  to  turn  over  every 
day. 

Student.  But,  look  here,  Deacon  Homespun,  how 
many  thousand  times  faster  than  for  the  earth  to  turn 
round  once  in  twenty-four  hours,  must  the  sun  go,  when 
it  is  so  far  from  us  ? 

Farmer.  Hem  I  hem  I  hem  1 — that's  a  plaguy  foolish 
question ;  I  don't  quite  see  into  that  myself,  but  the  Bi- 
ble says  so,  and  nobody's  any  business  to  conspute  the 
Bible,  you  young  blasphemer,  you ! 

Student.  But  the  Bible  was  not  given  to  teach  phil- 
osophy. However,  it  says  the  earth  was  turned  as  clay 
to  seal ;  therefore  it  proves  nothing  about  it. 

Farmer.  Why,  hem  I  hem  !  hem  I — but  what  makes 
you  think  'tis  round  ?  Don't  you  see  'tis  flat  as  far  as 
you  can  see  ? 

Student.  For  several  reasons:  it  casta  a  circular 
shadow  when  it  eclipses  the  moon,  and,  besides,  it  has 
been  sailed  round  several  times. 

Farmer  You  plaguy  fool  you,  the  earth  never  eclipses 
the  moon ;  and,  as  for  sailing  round  it,  they  only  sail 
round  close  to  the  edge,  and  take  plaguy  good  care  that 
they  don't  sail  off.  But  if  this  world  turns  over  once  in 
twenty-four  hours,  they  might  chain  up  a  vessel  to  a 
tree,  and  it  would  go  round  itself  every  day. 

Student.  But  how  happens  it  that  the  moon  is  always 
eclipsed  when  the  sun  is  creeping  through  your  under- 
pinning ? 

Farmer.  Hem  !  hem  I  Well,  I  ain't  goin'  to  give  up 
any  thing  I  know ;  and  I  shan't  believe  this  world  turns 
round  till  I  find  I  can  stand  upon  my  head;  for  I  know 
the  world  can't  stand  without  it  has  something  to  stand 
on. 

Student...  How  do  the  sun,  moon,  and  stars  stay  uji 
without  their~proper  foundation  ? 

Farmer.  How  the  old  boy  do  you  think  I  know? 
But  if  the  world  turns  round,  what's  the  reason  our  min- 
ister never  said  nothing  'bout  it  ? 

16 


182  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

StyxH^nt  He'll  tell  you  so  now,  or  lie  is  not  fit  for  a 
minister. 

Farmer.  You're  an  impudent  scamp  I  Do  you  mean 
to  consult  me  to  my  face,  and  a  deacon  too  ? 

Student.  If  you  are  oflPended,  I  have  no  more  to  say. 

Farmer.  Well,  I'll  make  you  know  better  than  to  con- 

spute  me  I  {strikes  Mm.) 

{Enter  Minister.) 

Minister.  Hold,  deacon  I  I'm  surprised  to  find  you 
fighting ! 

Farmer.     I  hain't  been  fighting. 

Minister.     But  I  saw  you  fighting. 

Farmer.  Well,  he's  a  villain,  and  ought  to  be  kicked 
by  every  good  man,  and  much  more  by  a  deacon  I 

Minister.     Why,  what  has  he  done  ? 

Farmer.  Done  !  why  he's  done  every  thing.  He  ought 
to  be  hung  I 

Minister.     Let  us  hear  what  it  is  ? 

Farmer.  Why,  he's  a  blasphemer;  he  holds  to  the 
most  conbominable  doctrine  that  ever  was  under  heaven. 

Minister.  But  what  has  he  said.  Deacon  Homespun, 
that  so  exasperates  you  ? 

Farmer.  Why,  he  'nies  the  Bible,  and  says  you  ain't 
no  more  fit  for  a  minister  than  my  old  one-horned  ram. 

Minister.     Wherein  has  he  denied  the  Bible,  pray  ? 

Farmer.  Why,  he  says  this  world  is  round,  and  yet 
folks  live  on't ;  and  turns  over,  too  ;  and  that  ain't  all — 
he  'nies  the  sun's  rising  and  setting ;  and,  if  a  man  won't 
fight  when  such  conbominable  doctrine's  held  up,  he 
can't  be  a  Christian. 

Minister.  I  don't  see  any  thing  in  that  criminal  or  con- 
trary to  Scripture. 

Student.  Did  I  not  tell  you  your  minister  would  say 
so  ? 

Farmer.  Well,  you're  all  a  pack  of  blasphemers ; 
you  'nie  the  Bible,  and  I  won't  stay  to  talk  with  you ! 
{Leaves^  and  is  heard  in  the  distance  saying :)  Haw  long 
here,  whoa,  git  up,  whoa  hish  I 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  188 

DIALOGUE    LVI. 

THE  MISER 

LovEGOLD  and  James. 

Lovegold.  Where  have  you  been?  I  have  wanted 
you  above  an  hour. 

James.  Whom  do  you  want,  sir — your  coachman  or 
your  cook  ?  for  I  am  both  one  and  t'other. 

Lovt.     I  want  my  cook. 

Jairies.  I  thought,  indeed,  it  was  not  your  coachman  , 
for  you  have  had  no  great  occasion  for  him  since  your 
last  pair  of  horses  were  stai'ved ;  but  your  cook,  sir,  shall 
wait  upon  you  in  an  instant.  {Puts  off  his  coachmari's 
great-coat^  and  appears  as  a  cook.)  Now,  sir,  I  am  ready 
for  your  commands. 

Love.     I  am  engaged  this  evening  to  give  a  supper. 

James.  A  supper,  sir  I  I  have  not  heard  the  word 
this  half-year ;  a  dinner,  indeed,  now  and  then ;  but  for 
a  supper,  I'm  almost  afraid,  for  want  of  practice — my 
hand  is  out. 

Love.  Leave  off  your  saucy  jesting,  and  see  that  you 
provide  a  good  supper. 

James.  That  may  be  done  with  a  good  deal  of  money, 
sir. 

Love.  Is  the  mischief  in  you?  Always  money  I  Can 
you  say  nothing  else  but  money,  money,  money?  My 
children,  my  servants,  my  relations,  can  pronounce 
nothing  but  money. 

Jamp.s.  Well,  sir;  but  how  many  will  there  be  at 
table? 

Jjove.  About  eight  or  ten ;  but  I  will  have  a  supper 
dressed  but  for  eight ;  for,  if  there  be  enough  for  eight, 
there  is  enough  for  ten. 

James.  Suppose,  sir,  at  one  end,  a  handsome  soup ;  at 
the  other,  a  fine  Westphalia  ham  and  chickens  ;  one  side, 
a  fillet  of  veal ;  on  the  other,  a  turkey,  or  rather  a  bus- 
tard, which  may  be  had  for  about  a  guinea 

Love.  Zounds !  is  the  fellow  providing  an  entertain* 
ment  for  my  lord  mayor  and  the  court  of  aldermen  ? 

Jamss.     Then  a  ragout  


184  ENTERTAINING  DIALOG  PES. 

Love.  I'll  have  no  ragout.  Would  you  burst  the 
good  people,  you  dog  ? 

James.     Then  pray,  sir,  say  what  will  you  have? 

Lave.  Why,  see  and  provide  something  to  cloy  their 
stomachs :  let  there  be  two  good  dishes  of  soup-maigre ; 
a  large  suet-pudding ;  some  dainty,  fat  pork-pie,  very  fat ; 
a  line,  small,  lean  breast  of  mutton,  and  a  large  dish  with 
two  artichokes.     There ;  that's  plenty  and  variety. 

Jamee.     0,  dear 

Love.     Plenty  and  variety. 

James.     But,  sir,  you  must  have  some  poultry. 

Love.     No ;  I'll  have  none. 

Jo^mes.     Indeed,  sir,  you  should. 

Love.  Well,  then — kill  the  old  hen,  for  she  has  done 
laying. 

Jam£s.  Mercy !  sir,  how  the  folks  will  talk  of  it ;  in- 
deed, people  say  enough  of  you  already. 

Love.     Eh !  why,  what  do  the  people  say,  pray  ? 

James.  Ah,  sir,  if  I  could  be  assured  you  would  not 
be  angry. 

Love.  Not  at  all ;  for  I'm  always  glad  to  hear  what 
the  world  says  of  me. 

James.  Why,  sir,  since  you  will  have  it,  then,  they 
make  a  jest  of  you  every  where ;  nay,  of  your  servants, 
on  your  account.  One  says,  you  pick  a  quarrel  with 
them  quarterly,  in  order  to  find  an  excuse  to  pay  them 
no  wages. 

Love.     Poh!  poh! 

James.  Another  says,  you  were  taken  one  night 
stealing  your  own  oats  from  your  own  horses. 

Love.  That  must  be  a  lie;  for  I  never  allow  them 
any. 

James.  In  a  word,  you  are  the  by-word  every  where ; 
and  you  are  never  mentioned,  but  oy  the  names  of  cov- 
etous, stingy,  scraping,  old 

Love.     Get  along,  you  impudent  villain ! 

Jam^s.     Nay,  sir,  you  said  you  wouldn't  be  angry. 

Love,     Get  out,  you  dog !  you 


ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES.  185 

DIALOGUE   LYII. 

THE  RIVAL  ORATORS* 

ScKTTB. — The  platform  of  a  tchool-room.  Characters. — Thomas 
Trotter,  a  large  hoy,  with  a  ^^big  voice;''''  and  Samuel  Sly,  a 
small  boy,  whose  vocal  organ  is  pitched  on  a  high  Tcey. 

Thomas  enters,  and  bows  to  the  audience,  followed  by  Samuel,  who 
goes  through  the  same  ceremony,  a  little  in  his  rear.) 

Thomas.  (Turning  partially  round.)  What  do  you 
want  here  ? 

Samuel.     I  want  to  speak  my  piece,  to  be  sure. 

Thomas.  Well,  you  will  please  to  wait  until  /  get 
through ;  it's  my  turn  now. 

Samuel.  No,  'tain't  your  turn,  either,  my  learned 
friend ;  excuse  me  for  contradicting ;  but,  if  I  don't  stick 
out  for  my  rights,  nobody  else  will.  My  turn  came  be- 
fore»that  fellow's  who  said  "  his  voice  was  still  for  war ;  " 
but  I  couldn't  think  how  my  speech  began,  then,  and  he 
got  the  start  of  me. 

Thomas.  Yerj  well ;  if  you  were  not  ready  when 
your  turn  came,  that's  your  fault,  and  not  mine.  Go  to 
your  seat,  and  don't  bother  me  any  more. 

Samitel.  Well,  that's  cool,  I  declare — as  cool  as  a  load 
of  ice  in  February.  Can't  you  ask  some  other  favor,  Mr. 
Trotter? 

Thomas.     Yes ;  hold  your  tongue. 

Samuel.  Can't  do  that;  I'm  bound  to  get  off  my 
speech  first.  You  see  it's  running  over,  like  a  bottle  of 
beer,  and  I  can't  keep  it  in.     So  here  goes: — 

"  My  name  is  Norval ;  on  the  Grampian  Hills 
My  father  feeds " 

Thoma^i.  (Interrupting  him,  commences  his  piece  in  a 
loud  tone.)     "  Friends,  Romans,  countrymen ! " 

Samuel.     Greeks,  Irishmen,  and  fellow-sojers  I 

Thomas.     "  Lend  me  your  ears." 

Samuel  Don't  you  do  it ;  he's  got  ears  enough  of  his 
own. 

*  Taken,  by  permission,  from  "  Whistler,''*  one  of  the  Aimwell  Story 
Books,  published  by  Gould  &  Lincoln,  Boston. 

16* 


186  ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES. 

Thomas      "  I  come  to  bury  CaBsar,  not  to  praise  him." 

Samuel.  {Afimicking  his  gestures.)  I  come  to  speak  my 
piece,  and  I'll  do  it,  Ceesar  or  no  Caesar.  "  My  name  is 
i^orval ; " 

Thomas.  {Advancing  toward  him^  in  a  threatening  atti- 
tude.) Sam  Sly,  if  you  don't  stop  your  fooling,  I'll  put 
you  off  the  stage. 

Samuel.  {Retreating.)  Don't,  don't  you  touch  me, 
Tom ;  you'll  joggle  my  piece  all  out  of  me  again. 

Thomas.     Well,  then,  keep  still  until  I  get  through. 

{Turns  to  the  audience.) 

"  Friends,  Romans,  countrymen  I  lend  me  your  ears ; 

I  come  to  bury  Caesar,  not  to  praise  him." 

Samuel.  I  say.  Tommy,  what  are  you  bla-a-a-a-r-ting 
about ;  have  you  lost  your  calf? 

Thomas.     "  The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them, 

The  good  is  oft  interred  with  their  bones ; 
So  let  it  be  with  Caesar." 

{He  is  again  brought  to  a  stand  by  Sam^  who  is  standing 
behind  him,  mimicking  his  gestures  in  a  ludicrous  manner.^ 

Now,  Sam,  I  tell  you  to  stop  your  monkey-shines ;  if 
you  don't,  I'll  make  you  I 

Samuel.  You  stop  your  spouting  about  Caesar,  then, 
and  let  me  have  my  say.  You  needn't  think  you  can 
cheat  me  out  of  my  rights  because  you  wear  higher 
heeled  shoes  than  I  do. 

Thomas.  I  can  tell  you  one  thing,  sir — nothing  but 
your  size  saves  you  from  a  good  flogging. 

Samuel.  Well,  that  is  a  queer  coincidence  ;  for  I  can 
tell  you  that  nothing  but  your  size  saves  you  from  a  good 
dose  of  Solomon's  grand  panacea.  {To  the  audience.)  I 
don't  know  what  can  be  done  with  such  a  long-legged 
fellow — he's  too  big  to  be  whipped,  and  he  isn't  big 
enough  to  behave  himself.  Kow,  all  keep  still,  and  let 
me  begin  again.     "  My  name  is  Norval ;  ■ " 

Thomas.     "  I  come  to  bury  Caesar,  • " 

Samuel.  I  thought  you'd  buried  him  once,  good  deeds, 
bones,  and  all ;  how  many  more  times  are  you  going  to 
Jo  it  ? 

Thomas.  Sam,  I'm  a  peaceable  fellow ;  but,  if  you  go 
much  further,  I  won't  be  responsible  for  the  conse- 
quences. 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  187 

Samuel  I'm  for  piece^  too ;  but  it's  my  piece,  and  not 
your  long  rigmarole  about  Caesar,  that  I  go  in  for.     As  I 

said  before,  "  My  name  is " 

Thomas.     "  The  noble  Brutus 

Hath  told  you  Caesar  was  ambitious ; 
If  it  were  so,  it  were  a  grievous  fault, 
And  grievously  hath  Caesar  answered  it." 
Samuel.     {In  a  loud  whisper.)     I  say,  Tom,  did  you 
know  you  had  got  a  hole  in  your  unwhisperables  ? 
Thomas.     "  Here,  under  leave  of  Brutus,  and  the  rest, 
(For  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man — 
So  are  they  all,  all  honorable  men,) 
Come  I  to  speak  at  Caesar's  funeral." 
Samuel.     This  isn't  Caesar's  funeral — it's  the  exhibition 
of  the  Spankertown  Academy,  and  it's  my  turn  to  offi- 
ciate, so  get  out  with  Caesar.     "  My  name  is  Nor " 

Tlwmas.     "He  was  my  friend,  faithful  and  just  to  me ; 
But  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious ; 
And  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man." 
Samuel.     Brutus  be  hanged;  who  cares  for  what  he 
said  ?     Come,  you've  sputtered  enough ;  now  give  me  a 

chance  to  say  something.     "  My  name  is " 

Thomas.  Come,  Sammy,  dont  interrupt  me  again ; 
that's  a  clever  fellow.  Let  me  finish  my  piece,  and  then 
you  shall  have  the  whole  platform  to  yourself 

Samuel.  You're  very  kind,  Mr.  Trotter — altogether 
too  kind !  Your  generosity  reminds  me  of  an  Irish  gen- 
tleman, who  couldn't  live  peaceably  with  his  wife,  and 
so  they  agreed  to  divide  the  house  between  them.  "  Bid- 
dy," says  he,  "  ye'll  jist  be  after  taking  the  outside  of  the 
house,  and  I'll  kape  the  inside." 

Thomas.  {To  me  audience.)  Ladies  and  gentlemen : — 
You  see  it  is  useless  for  me  to  attempt  to  proceed,  and  I 
trust  you  will  excuse  me  from  performing  my  part. 

{Bows  and  withdraws.) 
Samuel.  Yes,  I  hope  vou  will  excuse  him,  ladies  and 
gentlemen.  The  fact  is,  he  means  well  enough ;  but,  be- 
tween you  and  me,  he  doesn't  know  a  wheelwright  from 
a  right  wheel.  I'm  sorry  to  say,  his  education  has  been 
sadly  neglected,  as  you  all  perceive.  He  has'nt  enjoyed 
the  advantages  that  I  have  for  learning  good  manners. 
And,  then,  did  you  ever  hear  such  a  ridiculous  spouter ! 


188  ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES. 

Ho  might  make  a  very  decent  town-crier,  or  auctioneer, 
or  something  of  that  sort — but,  to  think  of  Tommy 
Trotter  pretending  to  be  an  orator,  and  delivering  a 
funeral  oration  over  Caesar !  0  my !  its  enough  to 
make  a  cat  laugh !  And,  now,  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
as  the  interruption  has  ceased,  I  will  proceed  with  my 
part : — 

"  My  name  is  Norval ;  on  the  Grampian  Hills 

My  father  feeds  his  flocks " 

And — and — and — {aside,  to  a  boy  near  him.) — what  is  it? 
{To  the  audience.)  "  Feeds  his  flocks  " — and — and — and 
— there  I  I'll  be  bio  wed  if  I  haven't  got  dead  stuck, 
a'ready  I  Just  as  I  expected  ;  that  lubber,  that  came  to 
bury  Caesar,  has  bullied  all  the  ideas  out  of  my  head  1 
(Beats  an  inglorious  retreat,  with  his  hands  over  his  face.) 


DIALOGUE   LYIII. 

GENTLEMAN  AND  IRISH  SERVANT. 


Gentleman  seated  at  a  table ;  Irish  Servant  enters,  in  search  of 
employment. 

Irishman.  {Taking  off  his  hat  and  bowing.)  An'  plaze 
yer  honor,  would  ye  be  after  giving  employment  to  a 
faithful  servant,  who  has  been  recimmended  to  call  upon 
yer  honor? 

Gentleman.  You  appear  to  have  walked  some  dis- 
tance ;  does  it  rain  ? 

Irish.     Never  a  drop,  plaze  yer  honor. 

Gent.  (Looking  out  at  tvindow.)  Ah  I  I  see  the  sun 
shines  now ;  post  nubila  Phoebus. 

Irish.     The  post  has  not  yet  arrived,  sir. 

Gent.     What  may  I  call  your  name  ? 

Irish.  My  name  is  Michael  Carnes,  and  I  have  always 
been  called  Mike,  and  you  are  at  liberty  to  call  me  that 
same. 

Gent.     Well,  Mike,  who  was  your  late  master  ? 

Irish.  Mr.  Jacobs,  plaze  yer  honor ;  and  a  nicer  man 
never  brathed. 

Gent.     How  long  did  you  live  with  Mr.  J.  ? 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  189 

Irish.  Ill  troth,  sir,  I  can't  tell.  I  passed  my  time  so 
pleasantly  in  his  sarvice,  tiiat  I  niver  kept  any  account 
of  it,  at  all,  at  all.  I  might  have  lived  with  him  all  the 
days  of  my  life,  and  a  great  deal  longer,  if  I  had  plazed 
to  do  so. 

Gent.     Why,  then,  did  you  leave  him  ? 

Irish.  It  was  by  mutual  agrament.  The  truth  was,  a 
slight  difference  arose  between  us,  and  he  said  I  should 
not  live^with  him  longer ;  and  at  the  same  instant,  you 
see,  I  declared  I  would  not  live  with  him :  so  we  parted 
on  good  terms — by  agrament,  you  see. 

Gent.     Was  not  your  master  a  proud  man  ? 

Ii-ish.  Indade  he  was — bless  his  honest  sowl !  He 
would  not  do  a  mane  act  for  the  univarse. 

Gent.     Well,  Mike,  how  old  are  you  now  ? 

Irish.  I  am  just  the  same  age  of  Patrick  O'Leary ;  he 
and  I  were  born  the  same  wake. 

Gent.     And  how  old  is  he  ? 

Irish.  He  is  just  my  age.  He  and  I  are  just  of  an 
age,  you  see,  only  one  of  us  is  older  than  the  other; 
but  which  is  the  oldest  I  can  not  say,  neither  can 
Patrick. 

Gent.     Were  you  born  in  Dublin  ? 

Irish.  No,  sir,  plaze  yer  honor,  though  I  might  have 
been,  if  I  had  desired ;  but,  as  I  always  preferred  the 
country,  I  was  born  there  ;  and,  plaze  God,  if  I  live  and 
do  well,  I'll  be  buried  in  the  same  parish  I  was  born  in. 

Gent.     You  can  write,  I  suppose. 

Irish.     Yes,  sir ;  as  fast  as  a  dog  can  trot. 

Gent.  What  is  the  usual  mode  of  traveling  in  Ire- 
land? 

Irish.  Why,  sir,  if  you  travel  by  water,  you  must 
take  a  boat ;  and,  if  you  travel  by  land,  either  in  a  chaise 
or  on  horseback ;  and  they  who  can  not  afford  either  of 
them  are  obliged  to  trudge  it  on  foot,  which,  to  my  mind, 
is  decidedly  the  safest  and  chapest  mode  of  moving 
about. 

Gent.  And  which  is  the  pleasantest  season  for  trav- 
eling ? 

Irish.  Faith,  sir,  I  think  that  season  in  which  a  man 
has  most  money  in  his  pocket. 

Gent.     I  think  your  roads  are  passably  good. 


190  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Irish.  They  are  all  quite  passable,  if  you  only  pay 
tlie  toll-man. 

Gent.  I  understand  you  have  many  black  cattle  in 
Ireland. 

Irish.     Faith,  we  have  plenty  of  every  color. 

Gent.  I  think  you  have  too  much  rain  in  joiir 
country. 

Irish.     So  every  one  says;  but  Sir  Boyle  has  prom 
ised   to  bring  in  an  act  of  parliament  in  favor  of  fair 
weather,  and  I  am  sure  the  poor  hay-makers  and  turf- 
cutters  will  bless  him  for  it.     It  was  he  that  first  proposed 
that  every  quart  bottle  should  hold  just  two  pints. 

Gent.  As  you  have  many  fine  rivers,  I  suppose  you 
have  an  abundance  of  nice  fish. 

Irish.  And  well  may  you  say  that ;  for  water  never 
wet  better  ones.  Why,  master,  I  won't  tell  you  a  lie ; 
but,  if  you  were  at  the  Boyne,  you  could  get  salmon  and 
trout  for  nothing;  and,  if  you  were  at  Ballyshanny, 
you'd  get  them  for  much  less. 

Gent.  Well,  you  seem  to  be  a  clever  fellow,  and,  if 
you  will  call  again  to-morrow,  I  will  see  what  I  can  do 
for  you. 

Irish.     Pace  to  your  good  sowl !     I  will  surely  do  so. 

{Bowing^  leave^.) 


DIALOGUE   LIX. 

BEAUTIES  OF  GOSSIP. 

Four  Girls — Miss  Marvel,  Miss  Gad,  Miss  Slander,  Miss  Upham. 

Miss  Marvel  Who  would  have  thought  it.  Miss 
Slander  ? 

Miss  Gad.     You  don't  say  so.  Miss  Slander ! 

Miss  Slander.  Oh,  but  it  is  quite  true.  It  must  be. 
Besides,  my  brother  William  heard  it  at  the  barber's 
shop. 

Miss  M.  Well,  now,  I  always  had  my  suspicions — 
there  was  always  a  something — a  what-do-ye-call-it  sort 
of  a  look  about  the  Uphams,  that  I  never  liked. 

Miss  S.     They  say  it  is  all  over  town — at  least,  my 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  191 

brother  William  says  it  must  be.  But,  whether  or  no — 
that's  the  fact.  John  Upham's  shop  is  shut  up  this 
morning. 

Miss  O.  Well,  well,  it  is  no  more  than  I  always  said 
it  would  come  to. 

Miss  S.  They  certainly  always  lived  abo\  e  their  sta- 
tion. As  my  brother  William  often  said  to  me,  "Nancy," 
says  he,  "  mark  my  words ;  for  all  that  them  Uphams 
hold  up  their  noses  like  conceited  peacocks,  as  they  are, 
pride  will  have  a  fall,"  says  he,  "pride  will  have  a 
fall  I  " 

Miss  M.  And  such  goings  on.  Miss  Slander,  to  be 
s'lre — such  goings  on!  Parties,  parties,  parties,  from 
Monday  till  Saturday — the  best  joint  at  the  butcher's,  the 
nicest  loaf  at  the  baker's,  always  bespoke  for  the  Up- 
hams. Well,  they  must  be  content,  now,  with  poor 
people's  fare  I 

Miss  S.  If  they  can  get  even  that  I  For  my  brother 
William  says  they  will  be  sold  out  and  out— down  to 
the  baby's  go-cart.     Dear  me,  dear  me  I 

Miss  G.  Only  to  think.  How  different  it  was  this 
time  last  year.  Miss  Slander — Miss  Upham  with  her  new 
velvet  dress,  the  finest  Genoa,  and  Mr.  Upham  with  his 
new  gig,  and  Master  Upham  with  his  new  watch,  and 
little  Emma  Upham  with  her  new  fancy  hat ! 

Miss  M.  But  every  body  could  see  what  was  coming. 
It  could  not  go  on  so  forever.  That's  what  I  said.  But 
Upham  was  always  such  a  proud  man. 

Miss  S.  Never  would  take  any  body's  advice  but  his 
own — there — it  was  no  later  than  Wednesday  week, 
when  my  brother  William  civilly  asked  him,  in  the  most 
neighborly  way  in  the  world,  if  he  wanted  a  little  con- 
versation with  a  friend  about  his  affairs,  like  as  they  were 
going  backward  visible;  and  what  do  you  think  the 
brute  said?  "William,"  said  he,  "you  and  your  sister 
Nancy  go  chattering  about  the  parish  like  a  couple  of 
human  magpies,  only  the  bird's  instinct  is  better  than 
your  reason.       That's  just  what  he  said,  the  vile  brute  I 

Miss  M.  Brute,  indeed,  Miss  Slander,  you  may  weh 
say  that.     Bird's  instinct,  forsooth  I 

Miss  G.  Set  him  up  to  talk  reason !  Had  he  reason 
enough  to  keep  himself  out  of  the  constable's  hands  ? 


192  ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES. 

Miss  M.  I  should  not  be  surprised,  Miss  Slander 
if  he  were  to  take  to  drinking. 

Miss  S.  And,  for  that  matter,  my  dear,  Thompson  told 
Green,  who  told  Lilley,  who  told  our  Becky,  who  told 
William,  that  Upham  was  seen  coming  out  of  Tim 
Smith's  dram-shop  this  very  morning. 

Miss  G.     Drunk,  of  course. 

Miss  S.  Well,  I  don't  know,  exactly ;  but  I  think  it 
is  much  more  likely  that  he  was  drunk  than  that  he  was 
sober. 

Miss  M.  Well,  well,  'tis  poor  Miss  Upham  that  I  pity ; 
I'm  sure  I  shan't  have  a  wink  of  sleep  all  this  blessed 
night,  for  thinking  of  her. 

Miss  G.  Poor  girl !  I'm  sure  I  feel  for  her.  Not  that 
she  was  ever  much  better  than  he.  They  do  say — but  I 
don't  know  of  my  own  knowledge,  and  I'm  the  last  per- 
son in  the  world  to  slander  any  body  to  the  back — but 
they  do  say  that,  before  they  came  to  our  place,  there 
were  reports,  you  know,  insinuations,  stories  like,  though 
I  don't  exactly  know  the  rights  of  it,  but  they  do  say 
something  about  Miss  Upham's  being  guilty  of  stealing  a 
nice  gold  watch  I  But  I  dare  say  it  is  all  nonsense ;  only, 
of  course,  there  are  some  people,  you  know,  that  will  talk. 

Miss  M  There,  now — who  would  have  thought  it  ? 
Did  you  ever  ?  But  there  was  always  something  nqtj  sly 
about  Miss  Upham — I've  seen  it  often. 

Miss  G.  What  I  hope  is,  that  little  Emma  won't  take 
after  her  aunt — poor  thing ! 

Miss  S.  Oh,  as  for  that,  bless  you,  like  aunt  like 
niece — but  I  say  nothing,  not  I.  No,  no !  nobody  ever 
heard  Nancy  Slander  go  beyond  the  line  in  that  way. 
Mum  is  my  word — mum,  mum!  What  I  say  is,  that 
people  ought  to  keep  people'cJ  tongues  between  people's 
teeth ;  that's  all.     Emma  Upham ! — ha,  ha,  bless  you ! 

Miss  M.  Hush,  hush,  if  here  is  not  Miss  Upham 
herself. 

Enter  Miss  Upham. 

Miss  G.  Well,  my  dear  Miss  Upham,  I  am  very  sorry, 
indeed. 

Miss  M.  I  could  almost  shed  tears  for  you,  my  dear 
Miss  Upham. 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  198 

Miss  S.  B\it,  Miss  Upham,  there  is  one  consolation 
for  you — you  are  not  without  a  friend  in  the  hour  of 
misfortune- —you  know  that. 

Miss  U.     I  must  beg  you  to  explain  yourselves,  ladies. 

Miss  S.  Well,  Miss  Upham,  I  do  not  think  you  have 
any  reason  now  to  put  on  those  j)roud  airs. 

Miss  0.  It  is  hardly  worth  while  to  keep  a  secret 
tliat  is  known  all  over  the  town. 

Miss  S.  You  would  do  better  to  remember,  Miss  (J]>- 
ham,  that  pride  will  have  a  fall,  Miss  Upham,  pride  will 
have  a  fall  I 

Miss  U.  Well,  ladies,  I  must  ask  you  once  more  to 
explain  yourselves. 

Miss  M.  Well,  Miss  Upham,  does  not  your  brother's 
shop  look  very  different  to-day  from  what  it  did  yester- 
day ? 

Miss  S.  And  did  not  my  brother  William  find,  this 
morning,  the  door  of  your  brother's  shop  locked  ? 

Miss  G.  And  would  not  some  people  get  some  very 
queer  answers  if  they  were  to  ask  you.  Miss  Upham, 
why  your  brother's  shop  was  shut  up  this  morning? 

Miss  U.  Well,  I  believe  it  is  a  very  common  thing 
for  merchants  to  take  an  account  of  stock  at  certain  sea- 
sons of  the  year;  at  least,  that  is  the  reason  why  my 
brother's  shop  was  shut  up  this  morning.  He  is  taking 
an  account  of  stock. 

Miss  M.     Taking  an  account  of  stock  I 

Miss  U.     Yes,  Miss  Marvel. 

Miss  G.  And  that  is  the  reason  why  the  door  of  your 
brother's  shop  was  shut  up  this  morning  ? 

Miss  U.     Yes,  Miss  Gad. 

Miss  S.     And  you  are  not  to  be  sold  out  and  out  ? 

Miss  U.     Not  that  I  know  of,  Miss  Slander. 

Miss  M.  I  wish  you  a  very  good  evening,  Miss 
Upham. 

Miss  U.     Good  evening.  Miss  Marvel.     {Exit  Miss  M.) 

Miss  G.     I  hope  no  offense  given,  Miss  Upham  ? 

Miss  U.     Not  in  the  least.  Miss  Gad.     {Exit  Miss  G.) 

Miss  S.  Give  my  love  to  your  sweet  niece,  Emma, 
Miss  Upham. 

Miss   U.     With  great  pleasure,  Miss  Slander.     {Exit 
Miss  S.)     There  go  Marvel,  God,  and  Slander;  how  ful] 
-      '  17 


194  ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES. 

of  spite  and  mischief  they  are !  May  I  take  warning 
from  them,  and  keep  altogether  from  gossiping  and  mis- 
representation. 


DIALOGUE    LX. 

THE  GRroiRON. 

The  Captain,  Patrick,  and  the  Frenchman. 

Patrick.  Well,  captain,  whereabouts  in  the  wide  -world 
are  we  ?     Is  it  Eoosia,  Proosia,  or  Jarmant  oceant  ? 

Captain.     Tut,  you  fool,  it's  France. 

Pat.  Tare  an'  ouns !  do  you  tell  me  so  ?  And  how 
do  you  know  it's  France,  captain  dear  ? 

Capt.  Because  we  were  on  the  coast  of  the  Bay  of 
Biscay,  when  the  vessel  was  wrecked. 

Pat.  Troth,  I  was  thinkin'  so  myself  And  now, 
captain  jewel,  it  is  I  that  wishes  we  had  a  gridiron. 

Capt.  Why,  Patrick,  what  puts  the  notion  of  a  grid- 
iron into  your  head  ? 

Pat.     Becase  Pm  starving  with  hunger,  captain  dear. 

Capt.  Surely,  you  do  not  intend  to  eat  a  gridiron,  do 
you? 

Pat.  Ate  a  gridiron !  bad  luck  to  it !  No.  But,  if 
we  had  a  gridiron,  we  could  dress  a  beefsteak. 

Capt.     Yes ;  but  where's  the  beefsteak,  Patrick. 

Pat.     Sure,  couldn't  we  cut  it  off  the  pork  ? 

Capt.  I  never  thought  of  that.  You  are  a  clever 
fellow,  Patrick.     {Laughing.) 

Pat.  There's  many  a  thrue  word  said  in  joke,  captain. 
And  now,  if  you  will  go  and  get  the  bit  of  pork  that  we 
saved  from  the  rack,  I'll  go  to  the  house  there  bey  ant, 
and  ax  some  of  them  to  lind  me  the  loan  of  a  gridiron. 

Capt.  But,  Patrick,  this  is  France,  and  they  are  all 
foreigners  here. 

Pat  Well,  and  how  do  you  know  but  I  am  as  good 
a  furrincr  myself  as  any  o'  them. 

Capt.     What  do  you  mean,  Patrick  ? 

Pat.     Parley  voo  frongsaj^  ? 

Capt.     O,  you  un  ierstand  French,  then,  is  it  ? 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  195 

P<xt.     Troth,  you  may  say  that,  captain  dear. 

Capt  Well,  Patrick,  success  to  you.  Be  civil  to  the 
foreigners,  and  I  will  be  back  with  the  pork  in  a  minute. 

(He  goes  out.) 

Pat.  Aye,  sure  enough,  I'll  be  civil  to  them ;  for  the 
French  are  always  mighty  p'lite  intirely,  and  I'll  show 
them  I  know  what  good  manners  is.  Indade,  and  here 
comes  munseer  himself,  quite  convaynient.  {As  the 
Frenchman  enters^  Patrick  takes  off  his  hat,  and,  making  a 
low  bow,  says,)  God  save  you,  sir,  and  all  your  children. 
I  beg  your  pardon  for  the  liberty  I  take,  but  it's  only 
being  in  disthress  in  regard  of  ateing,  that  I  make  bowld 
to  trouble  ye ;  and,  if  you  could  lind  me  the  loan  of  a 
gridiron,  I'd  be  intirely  obleeged  to  ye. 

Frenchman.     {Staring  at  him.)     Comment  I 

Pat.  Indade,  it's  thrue  for  you.  I'm  tathered  to 
paces,  and  God  knows  I  look  quare  enough ;  but  it's  by 
rason  of  the  storm,  that  dhruv  us  ashore  jist  here,  and 
we're  all  starvin'. 

FVench.     Je  m'y  t {Pronounced  je  meet.) 

Pat.  0 !  not  at  all !  by  no  manes  I  we  have  plenty  of 
mate  ourselves,  and  we'll  dhress  it,  if  you'd  be  plased  jist 
to  lind  us  the  loan  of  a  gridiron,  sir.  {Making  a  low 
how.) 

French.     {Staring  at  him,  hut  not  understanding  a  word.) 

Pat.  I  beg  pardon,  sir;  but  may  be  I'm  undher  a 
mistake,  but  I  thought  I  was  in  France,  sir.  Ain't  you 
all  furriners  here  ?     Parley  voo  frongsay  ? 

French'     Oui,  monsieur. 

Pat.  Then,  would  you  lind  me  the  loan  of  a  gridiron, 
if  you  plase?  {The  Frenchman  stares  more  than  ever,  as 
if  anxious  to  understand.)  I  know  it's  a  liberty  I  take, 
sir ;  but  it's  only  in  the  regard  of  bein'  cast  away ;  and, 
if  you  plase,  sir,  parley  voo  frongsay  ? 

French.     Oui,  monsieur;  oui. 

Pat.  Then  would  you  lind  me  the  loan  of  a  gridiron, 
sir,  and  you'll  obleege  me. 

French.     Monsieur,  pardon,  monsieur 

Pat.  {Angrily,)  I3y  my  sowl,  if  it  was  you  was  in 
disthress,  and  if  it  was  to  owld  Ireland  you  came,  it's  not 
only  the  gridiron  they'd  give  you,  if  you  axed  it,  but 
Bomething  to  put  on  it  too,  and  a  dhrop  of  drink  into  the 


196  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

bargain.  Can't  you  understand  your  own  language? 
(  Very  slowly.)     Parley — voo — frongsay — munseer  ? 

French.     Qui,  monsieur ;  oui,  monsieur,  mais 

Pat.  Then  lind  me  the  loan  of  a  gridiron,  I  say,  and 
bad  scram  to  you. 

French.  {Bowing  and  scraping.)  Monsieur,  je  ne 
Ventend 

Pat.  Phool  the  divil  sweep  yourself  and  your  long 
tongs  !  I  don't  want  a  tongs,  at  all  at  all.  Can't  you 
listen  to  rason  ? 

French.     Oui,  oui,  monsieur ;  certainement,  mais 

Pat.  Then  lind  me  the  loan  of  a  gridiron,  and  howld 
your  prate.  {The  Frenchman  shakes  his  head,  as  if  to  say 
he  did  not  understand  ;  hut  Patrick,  thinking  he  meant  it  as  a 
refusal,  says,  in  a  passion,)  Bad  cess  to  the  likes  o'  you ! 
Troth,  if  you  were  in  my  counthry,  it's  not  that-a-way 
they'd  use  you.  The  curse  o'  the  crows  on  you,  you 
owld  sinner  1  The  divil  another  word  I'll  say  to  you. 
{The  Frenchnfian  puts  his  hand  on  his  heart,  and  tries  to 
express  compassion  in  his  countenance.)  Well,  I'll  give 
you  one  chance  more,  you  owld  thafe!  Are  you  a 
Christhian,  at  all  at  all  ?  Are  you  a  furriner  that  all  the 
world  calls  so  p'lite  ?  Bad  luck  to  you !  do  you  under- 
stand your  mother- tongue ?  Parley  voo  frongsay? 
(  Very  loud.)     Parley  voo  frongsay  ? 

French.     Oui,  monsieur;  oui,  oui. 

Pat.  Then,  thunder  and  turf!  will  you  lind  me  the 
loan  of  a  gridiron  ?  {The  Frenchman  shakes  his  head,  as 
if  he  did  not  understand;  and  Pat  says,  vehemently,)  The 
curse  of  the  hungry  be  on  you,  you  owld  negarly  villain  ! 
the  back  of  my  hand  and  the  sowl  of  my  fut  to  you  I 
May  you  want  a  gridiron  yourself,  yet !  and,  wherever  I 
go,  it  s  high  and  low,  rich  and  poor,  shall  hear  of  it,  and 
be  hanged  to  you  I 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  197 

DIALOGUE    LXI. 

THE  WILL. 

Mr.  Swipes,  brewer,  and  Mr.  Currie,  saddler. 

Swipes.  A  sober  occasion  this,  brother  Currie.  Who 
would  have  thought  the  old  lady  was  so  near  her  end  ? 

Currie.  Ah,  we  must  all  die,  brother  Swipes,  and 
those  who  live  longest  outlive  the  most. 

Swipes.  True,  true;  but  since  we  must  die,  and  leave 
our  earthly  possessions,  it  is  well  that  the  law  takes  such 
good  care  of  us.  Had  the  old  lady  her  senses  when  she 
departed  ? 

Currie.  Perfectly,  perfectly.  'Squire  Drawl  told  me 
she  read  every  word  of  her  testament  aloud,  and  never 
signed  her  name  better. 

Swipes.  Had  you  any  hint'  from  the  'Squire  what  dis- 
position she  made  of  her  property  ? 

Currie.  Not  a  whisper ;  the  'Squire  is  as  close  as  an 
underground  tomb ;  but  one  of  the  witnesses  hinted  to 
me  that  she  has  cut  off  her  graceless  nephew  with  a  cent. 

Swipes.  Has  she,  good  soul,  has  she  ?  you  know  1 
come  in  then,  in  right  of  my  wife. 

Currie.  And  I  in  my  own  right,  and  this  is  no  doubt 
the  reason  why  we  have  been  called  to  hear  the  reading 
of  the  will.  'Squire  Drawl  knows  how  things  should  be 
done,  though  he  is  as  air-tight  as  your  beer-barrels.  But 
here  comes  the  young  reprobate;  he  must  be  present  as  a 
matter  of  course,  you  know.  {Enter  Frank  Millington.) 
Your  servant,  young  gentleman.  So  your  benefactress 
has  left  you  at  last. 

Swipes.  It  is  a  painful  thing  to  part  with  old  and 
good  friends,  Mr.  Millington. 

Frank.  It  is  so,  sir ;  but  I  could  bear  her  loss  better, 
had  I  not  so  often  been  ungrateful  for  her  kindness.  She 
was  my  only  friend,  and  I  knew  not  her  value. 

Currie.  It  is  too  late  to  repent,  Master  Millington. 
You  will  now  have  a  chance  to  earn  your  own  bread 

Swipes.  Aye,  by  the  sweat  of  your  brow,  an  better 
people  are  obliged  to.  You  would  make  a  fine  brewer's 
tx)y,  if  you  were  not  too  old. 

\n* 


198  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Curiie.  Aye,  or  a  saddler's  lackey,  if  held  with  a 
tight  rein. 

Frank.  Gentlemen,  your  remarks  imply  that  my  aunt 
has  treated  me  as  I  deserved.  I  am  above  your  insults ; 
and  only  hope  that  you  will  bear  your  fortune  as  mod- 
estly as  I  shall  min3  submissively-  I  shall  retire.  {Gc- 
ing^  he  raeeis  the  ^Squire.) 

^Squire.  Stop,  stop,  young  man.  We  must  have  your 
presence.  Good  morning,  gentlemen,  you  are  early  on 
the  ground. 

Gurrie.     I  hope  the  'Squire  is  well  to-day. 

^Squire.     Pretty  comfortable  for  an  invalid. 

Swipes.  I  trust  the  damp  air  has  not  affected  your 
lungs  again. 

^Squire.  No,  I  beheve  not.  You  know  I  never  hniTy. 
Slow  and  sure  is  my  maxim.  Well,  since  the  heirs-at- 
law  are  all  convened,  I  shall  proceed  to  open  the  last  will 
and  testament  of  your  deceased  relative,  according  to 
law.     (^Breaks  the  seal.) 

Swipes.  It  is  a  trying  scene  to  leave  all  one's  posses- 
sions, 'Squire,  in  this  manner. 

Gurrie.  It  really  makes  me  feel  melancholy  when  I 
look  around  and  see  every  thing  but  the  venerable  own- 
er of  these  goods.  Well  did  the  preacher  say.  All  is 
vanity. 

\Squire.  Please  to  be  seated,  gentlemen.  (All  sit. 
The  ^Squire,  having  put  on  his  spectachs,  begins  to  read  in 
a  drawling^  nasal  tone.  Imprimis,  Whereas  my  nephew, 
Francis  Millington,  by  his  disobedience  and  ungrateful  con- 
duct, has  shown  himself  unworthy  of  my  bounty,  and  inca- 
pable of  managing  my  large  estate,  I  do  hereby  give  and 
bequeath  all  my  houses,  farms,  stocks,  moneys,  and  property ^ 
both  personal  and  real,  to  my  dear  cousins,  SamuA  Swipes, 
of  Malt  street,  brewer,  and  Ghristopher  Gurrie,  of  Fly  court, 
saddler.) (^Squire  takes  off  his  spectacles  to  wipe  them.) 

Swipes.  {Takes  out  his  handkerchief,  and  attempts  to 
snivel)  Generous  creature  1  kind  soul  I  I  always  loved 
her. 

Gurrie.  She  was  good,  she  was  kind.  She  was  in  her 
right  mind.  Brother  Swipes,  when  we  divide,  I  think  I 
shall  take  the  mansion-house. 

Swipes.    Not  so  fast,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Gurrie.     My 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  199 

wife  has  long  had  her  eye  upon  that,  and  must  have 
it.     {Both  rise.) 

Currii.  There  will  be  two  words  to  that  bargain,  Mr. 
Swipes  And,  besides,  I  ought  to  have  the  first  choice. 
Did  not  I  lend  her  a  new  chaise  every  time  she  wished 
to  ride  ?  and  who  knows  what  influence 

Swipes.  Am  I  not  named  first  in  her  will?  and  did 
I  not  furnish  her  with  my  best  small  beer  for  more  than 
six  months  ?  and  who  knows 

Frank,     Gentlemen,  I  must  leave  you.     {Going.) 

^Squire.  (  Who  has  been  leisurely  wiping  his  spectacles, 
again  puts  them  on,  and,  with  his  calm,  nasal  twang,  calls 
out,)  Pray  gentlemen,  keep  your  seats.  I  have  not 
done  yet.  {All  sit.)  Let  me  see — where  was  I?  Aye, 
"  all  my  property,  both  personal  and  real,  to  my  dear  cous- 
ins, Samuel  Swipes,  of  Malt  street,  brewer 

Swipes.     Yes ! 

^Squire.  '■^  And  Chi^topher  Currie,  Fly  court,  sad- 
dler   

Currie.     Yes ! 

^Squire.  "  To  have  and  to  hold  IN  TRUST,  for  the  sole 
and  exclusive  benefit  of  my  nephew,  Francis  Millington, 
until  he  shall  have  attained  to  lawful  age,  by  which  time  1 
hope  he  will  have  so  far  reformed  his  evil  habits  that  he  may 
safely  be  intrusted  with  the  large  fortune  which  I  hereby  be- 
queath  to  him. 

Swipes.  What's  all  this  ?  You  don't  mean  that  we  ^.re 
humbugged?  In  trust!  how  does  that  appear?  Where 
isit? 

''Squire.  {Pointing  to  the  parchment.)  There — in  two 
words  of  as  good  old  English  as  I  ever  penned. 

Currie.  Pretty  well  too,  Mr.  'Squire,  if  we  must  be 
sent  for  to  be  made  a  laughing-stock  of  She  shall  pay 
for  every  ride  she  had  out  of  my  chaise,  I  promise  you. 

Swipes.  And  for  every  drop  of  my  beer.  Fine  times ! 
if  two  sober,  hard-working  citizens  are  to  be  brought 
here  to  be  made  the  sport  of  a  graceless  profligate.  But 
we  will  manage  his  property  for  him,  Mr.  Currie ;  we 
will  make  him  feel  that  trustees  are  not  to  be  trifled  with. 

Currie.     That  will  we. 

^Squire.  Not  so  fast,  gentlemen,  for  the  instrument  is 
dated  three  years  ago,  and  the  young  gentleman  must 


200  ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES. 

already  be  of  age,  and  able  to  take  care  of  bimself.  Is 
it  not  so,  Francis  ? 

Frank.     It  is,  your  worship. 

^Squire.  Then,  gentlemen,  having  attended  the  break- 
ing of  this  seal,  according  to  law,  you  are  released  from 
uny  further  trouble  in  the  premises. 


DIALOGUE   LXII. 

THE  AMERICAN  ANTiaUARY. 


J^icse.  (Alone.)  I  am  almost  afraid  to  try,  but  I  must 
do  something  or  starve.  I  am  told  that  Dr.  Oxyde,  who 
lives  here,  is  so  absorbed  in  antiquarian  researches  that 
he  is  easily  imposed  upon.  I  have  nothing  to  sell  him 
but  a  tag-lock  of  a  cashmere  ram,  my  queue,  which  the 
physician  cut  off  when  I  had  the  yellow  fever,  an  old 
pistol  which  has  lost  its  fellow,  a  bottle  of  water  which 
they  told  me  was  good  for  the  scrofula,  the  last  letter 
from  my  sweetheart,  and  a  spare  old  hat  which  floated 
ashore  after  my  shipwreck.  To  these  I  may  add  a  good 
stock  of  assurance,  which  I  am  the  more  reconciled  to 
using  upon  the  Doctor,  because,  though  he  is  said  to  pay 
liberally  for  useless  antiques,  he  refused  me  a  night's 
lodging  when  I  was  first  cast  ashore. 

{Enter  Br.  Oxyde,  dressed  in  the  style  of  the  last  century.) 

Dr.  Oxyde.     Well,  sir,  what  is  your  business  with  me  ? 

Ruse.  I  have  a  few  precious  relics,  sir,  which  neces- 
sity compels  me  to  part  with.  I  have  parted  with  every 
thing  else,  and  hoped  to  have  kept  these  in  my  posses- 
sion. Indeed,  I  shall  only  sell  them  now  upon  condition 
that  I  may  redeem  them  within  a  year,  at  what  I  sell 
them  for,  if  I  should  ever  reach  home. 

Dr.  0.     I  will  look  at  them,  sir. 

Rme.  {Taking  up  the  goaHs  hair)  This,  sir.  is  a  lock 
of  hair  from  the  head  of  Philip  of  Mount  Hope,  the  abo- 
riginal patriot — the  greatest  hero — the 

Dr.  0.  1  know  all  about  him,  friend.  But  this  does 
not  resemble  an  Indian's  hair,  this  is  white. 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  201 

Rtise.  I  am  surprised  to  hear  such  an  objection  from 
so  distinguished  an  antiquary.  I  take  its  color  to  be  the 
best  proof  of  its  genuineness.  It  has  been  bleached  by 
age.  A  century  and  a  half  is  a  long  while  for  hair  to  be 
preserved,  Dr.  Oxyde. 

Dr.  0.  Where  are  your  certificates  to  prove  all 
this? 

^luse.  Certificates,  Doctor !  I  would  not  have  insult- 
ed you  by  offering  any ;  but,  if  you  insist  upon  them,  it 
will  be  as  easy  to  procure  them  as  to  prove  that  I  had  a 
grandfiither,  from  whom  I  inherited  them. 

Dr.  0.     Well.     What  else  have  you  ? 

Ruse.  A  bottle  of  the  water  which  the  Plymouth  set- 
tlers brought  over. 

Dr.  0.  Stop,  friend,  not  so  fast — they  drank  up  all 
their  water  before  they  landed,  and  borrowed  some  beer 
of  the  captain. 

Ruse.  It  can  not  be,  Doctor,  that  they  drank  up  aZZ, 
for  you  see  here  is  a  bottle  of  it.  One  fact  like  this  is 
worth  a  dozen  histories. 

Dr.  0.  But  why  should  they  bottle  up  water,  which  is 
80  common? 

Rxise.  You  an  antiquary  and  ask  this  ?  Think  you, 
if  there  was  but  one  quart  of  water  on  board,  it  would 
not  be  precious  as  tears,  and  worth  bottling? 

Dr.  0.     Aye,  aye ;  but  what  is  that  in  your  hand  ? 

RiLse.     Governor  Endicott's  queue 

Dr.  0.  But  Governor  Endicott  wore  no  queue,  and 
never  allowed  one  to  be  worn  in  the  colony. 

Ruse.  Dear  sir,  you  did  not  hear  me  out.  This  queue 
was  cut  from  his  head  some  years  after  his  decease.  His 
hair  might  have  grown,  you  know,  after  his  death,  to  be 
revenged  for  his  hostility  to  it  while  living. 

Dr.  0.  I  have  heard  of  such  things ;  but  how  comes 
this  not  to  be  bleached  after  two  centuries. 

Ruse.  There  again  even  Dr.  Oxyde  may  learn  some- 
thing from  one  who  pretends  to  no  antiquarian  skill. 
The  ordinary  process  of  bleaching  does  not  take  place  in 
posthumous  hair. 

Dr.  0.  This  was  a  long  growth  for  rowen  though, 
you  must  confess. 

Ruse.     The  oftener  grass  is  cut  the  ranker  it  grows, 


202  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Doctor,  My  next  relic  is  a  pistol  of  William  Peim,  tho 
greatest  legislator  and  philan 

Dr.  0.  Stop,  stop,  sir.  William  Penn  was  a  Quaker, 
and  used  no  fire-arms. 

RiLse.  The  very  man  to  take  care  of  guns  and  pistols. 
Because  he  never  used  them,  does  it  follow  that  he  never 
Iccpt  them  ?  Do  you  keep  nothing  that  you  never  use  ? 
Do  you  give  the  poor  all  the  money  you  do  not  need  ? 
Do  you  bless  the  world  with  all  the  precious  learning 
you  have  laid  up  ? 

Dr.  0,  It  never  entered  my  imagination  before  that 
William  Penn  kept  fire-arms. 

Ruse,     Nor  would  it  mine  had  I  not  possessed  one. 

Dr,  0.     I  must  have  some  proof  of  this. 

Ruse.  Proof,  sir !  is  not  its  having  no  lock  sufficient 
proof  tha'.  it  belonged  to  a  peaceable  man?  I  am  sur- 
prised. Doctor,  to  hear  a  man  of  your  profound  judgment 
asking  for  proof.  My  next  antique  is  a  hat  of  William 
Penn,  a  mate  to  the  pistol ;  I  mean  that  they  shall  go 
together. 

Dr.  0.  But  Penn  wore  the  broad  brim  of  his  sect. 
How  will  you  get  over  that  ? 

Ruse.  If  this  were  a  broad  brim,  you  might  suspect 
it ;  but  you  do  not  suppose  that  any  one  would  offer  a  hat 
60  unlike  a  Quaker's,  unless  he  was  sure  it  was  genuine. 

Dr.  0.  But  how  do  I  know  that  Penn  ever  wore  such 
a  hat? 

Ruse.  How  do  you  know  that  he  never  had  a  "  world's 
hat?  "  We  know  he  wore  one  before  he  turned  Quaker, 
and  he  would  undoubtedly  preserve  that,  as  a  memento 
of  his  past  vanity  and  present  wisdom,  with  more  care 
than  he  would  waste  upon  an  e very-day  hat. 

Dr.  0.     I  must  think  upon  this. 

Ru^e.  The  last  relic  I  have  to  offer  you.  Doctor,  is 
the  most  curious.  It  is  an  original  love-letter  of  Poca- 
hontas to  Captain  Smith. 

Dr.  0.  But  Smith  was  a  married  man,  and  too  old  for 
her. 

Ruse.     Love  overleaps  all  bars,  Doctor. 

Dr.  0.  Aye,  aye,  but  who  taught  her  how  to 
write? 

Ruse.      How — how  should    I    know   that?     Besides, 


ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES.  203 

of  what  consequence  is  it,  since  this  letter  proves  she 
did  write  ? 

Dr.  0.     But  who  taught  her  the  English  language  ? 

Ruse.  All  nations  understand  the  language  of  love, 
Doctor. 

Dr.  0.     Aje,  aje,  I  mean  the  written  language. 

Ruse.     This  is  written  on  the  hearts  of  all. 

Dr.  0.  But  this  is  written  on  paper^  sir;  and,  if  I  mis- 
take not,  {examining  the  paper ^\  on  modern  paper.  Here 
is  the  maker's  name,  sir,  and  tne  date  is  only  1820. 

Ruse.  Let  me  see,  there  must  be  some  mistake.  0, 
yes,  look  here,  sir,  this  is  a  letter  to  myself — I  have 
Drought  the  wrong  one ;  but  no  matter,  I  may  not  need 
to  sell  it. 

Dr.  0.     What  price  do  you  put  upon  these  relics,  sir? 

Ruse.  I  had  them  appraised  at  a  round  hundred  each, 
Doctor,  but  the  letter  is  absent,  and  my  wants  urgent.  I 
will  take  three  hundred  for  these  four. 

Dr.  0.  Sir,  your  price  is  extravagant,  yqtj  extrava- 
gant.    I  should  be  ruined  to  give  it. 

Ruse.  Is  it  Dr.  Oxyde  who  says  so  ?  I  have  been 
told  he  knew  the  value  of  such  relics,  and  would  pay  for 
them ;  but  I  have  been  misinformed,  and  shall  reserve 
them  for  somebody  who  knows  how  to  value  what  ls 
really  invaluable. 

Dr.  0.  I  will  give  you  the  money,  friend,  upon  two 
conditions.  The  first  is  that  I  shall  have  the  refusal  of 
Pocahontas'  letter,  and  the  second  that  you  will  tell  no 
one  of  the  purchase ;  for  I  should  like  to  make  it  known 
to  the  world  myself  in  a  communication  to  our  antiqua- 
rian society,  which  I  shall  read  to  them  at  our  next  meet- 
ing. 

Ruse.  My  distresses  oblige  me  to  accept  your  terms, 
Doctor. 

Dr.  0.     There  then.     {Giving  tlie  money.) 

Rrise.  This  is  right,  sir ;  but  you  must  recollect,  that  1 
reserve  the  right  to  redeem  them  within  one  year.  Good 
morning.  Doctor. 


204  ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES. 

DIALOGUE   LXIII. 

PHYSIOGNOMY. 

John.  I  understand  tliat  General  La  Fajette  is  to 
visit  you  this  afternoon,  and,  never  having  seen  him,  I 
am  anxious  to  examine  his  features. 

Tliomas,  Always  at  your  physiognomy !  I  suppose, 
if  his  face  does  not  conform  to  your  rules,  you  will 
swear  that  the  whole  world  is  deceived  in  his  character, 
and  that  he  is  not  what  he  seems — brave,  and  wise,  and 
good. 

John.  Not  so  bad  as  that,  Thomas,  for  I  am  prepared 
to  magnify  every  favorable  trait  in  his  countenance, 
My  only  fear  is  that  I  shall  see  traces  of  good  qualities 
where  there  are  none. 

Thomas.  You  will  soon  have  a  chance  to  try  your 
skill  and  your  fairness,  for  here  he  comes. 

{Enter   the  General.) 

My  dear  General,  how  do  you  do  ? 

General.  Well,  my  dear  sir,  if  happiness  can  make 
me  so.  I  am  oppressed  by  the  kindness  of  my  Ameri- 
can children. 

Thomas.  In  their  anxiety  to  unburden  their  hearts 
they  forget  that  it  is  the  same  wearied  man  who  has  re- 
ceived the  homage  of  a  million  hearts  before. 

Oeneral.  I  can  not  die  a  more  pleasant  death ;  but  I 
am  in  no  danger.  This  affection  has  restored  my  youth, 
and  given  new  warmth  to  my  heart. 

Thomas.  Long  may  it  continue  to  do  so.  But  come, 
sir,  and  let  me  introduce  you  to  my  family.  {They  go 
out.     John  com^  forward.) 

John.  Well,  John  Gaspar  Lavater  forever !  I  could 
not  have  believed  that  every  feature  would  have  borne 
such  evidence  to  his  exalted  character.  I  shall  silence 
the  unbelief  of  Thomas  in  my  favorite  science  now. 

Enter  Thomas. 

Thomas.    Excuse  me,  John,  for  not  introducing  the 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  205 

General  to  you.     I  supposed  you  wished  to  examine  him 
unnoticed. 

John.     I  did  so,  and  am  satisfied. 

Thomas.     Satisfied  of  what? 

John.     That  he  is  great. 

Thoiwis.  Must  a  man  study  physiognomy  to  be  satis- 
fied of  that?  I  have  no  skill  in  this  science,  but  I  have 
lon^  been  satisfied  of  his  greatness. 

John.  Aye,  aye ;  but  how  inferior  must  be  such  satis- 
f^xction  to  that  which  arises  from  the  coincidence  of  his 
character  with  the  rules  of  our  science. 

Thomas.     How  so  ? 

John.  You  read  that  he  is  brave,  and  you  believe  it. 
I  believe  it  also ;  but,  when  I  look  upon  his  brow,  and 
find  it  marked  with  every  noble  quality,  I  do  more  than 
believe,  Ifeel  that  he  is  brave. 

TJiomas.  But  his  features  are  mild  and  any  thing  but 
warlike.     I  never  should  select  his  face  for  a  warrior's. 

John.  Because  you  examine  superficially.  We,  who 
have  studied  the  human  countenance,  can  see  marks  in- 
visible to  common  eyes. 

Tliomas.  No  doubt ;  but  still  I  think  his  countenance 
is  any  thing  but  formidable.  Besides,  his  large,  full  eye 
and  small,  arched  eyebrows  indicate  a  feeble  intellect. 

John.  My  dear  sir,  this  is  too  bad — you  are  almost 
profane.  No  fool  could  ever  arch  his  eyebrows  so  sub- 
limely. 

Thomas.     Our  monkey  can,  sometimes. 

John.     What  think  you  of  his  nose,  then  ? 

Tkomxis.     It  is  rather  lengthy. 

John.  Aye,  but  what  talent  does  it  indicate  ?  Does 
not  foresight  sit  upon  it  ? 

Thomas.     Yes,  when  he  wears  spectacles. 

John.     You  are  determined  to  ridicule  my  science. 

Thomas.  Do  you  not  suspect  that  a  previous  knowl- 
edge of  his  character  has  assisted  you  in  developing  the 
expression  of  his  features. 

John.  Not  in  the  least.  I  need  no  previous  acquaint- 
ance with  a  man  to  enable  me  to  read  his  character.  Sir, 
no  other  man  than  La  Fayette  ever  wore  such  a  head  as 
I  have  just  seen;  and  no  face  ever  more  distinctly  bore 
the  impress  of  goodness,  valor,  and  wisdom. 

18 


20G  ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES. 


Enter  the  supposed  General. 

Thomas.  Well,  Bob,  have  you  taken  care  of  the  Gen- 
eral's horses  ? 

Bob.     Yes,  sir. 

Thomas.  You  may  put  your  new  dress  in  my  ward- 
robe again,  and  then  clean  my  boots. 

Bob.     I  will,  sir ;  for  I  am  tired  of  acting  the  General. 

{Exit.) 

John.     How  is  this  ;  the  General  your  serving-man? 

Thomas.  Even  so.  I  have  amused  myself  a  little  at 
your  expense ;  but,  if  I  have  exposed  an  innocent  folly, 
which  seeks  to  be  wise  above  what  is  written,  you  will 
forgive  me. 

John.  I  could  forgive  the  joke  if  the  servant  had  not 
joined  in  it. 

Thomas.  He  knows  not  the  object  of  it.  I  taught 
him  the  little  he  had  to  say,  and  you  must  own  he  said 
it  well. 

John.  Not  exactly — I  thought  I  could  see  a  little  of 
the  clown  under  the  disguise. 

Thomas.  I  dare  say  you  can  see  it  now  you  know  his 
real  character ;  but  you  know  it  is  not  long  since  no  man 
but  La  Fayette  ever  wore  such  a  head.  You  may  de- 
pend upon  it,  your  judgment  has  been  astride  of  your 
imagination  for  once. 

John.  I  acknowledge  it,  or  I  should  never  have  so 
misapplied  the  rules  of  my  divine  science.  The  art  was 
in  unskillful  hands,  but  its  rules  are  no  less  certain  on 
that  account. 

Thomas.  If  I  have  convinced  you  that  the  rules  of 
your  science  are  not  infallible,  I  shall  not  deny  that  the 
features  sometimes  form  the  basis  of  our  judgment;  but 
this  judgment  is  often  erroneous,  or  prejudice  is  a  word 
without  signification.  But  come,  I  will  pay  you  for  the 
joke  by  introducing  you  to  the  real  General,  who  has 
been  several  hours  in  the  house. 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  207 

DIALOGUE  LXIV. 

THE  COTIET.*— A  BARGAIN  NOT  CONCLUDED. 

OoDGN  against  Warner. 

(Judge   Jvstin  on    the   bench.     Each   of   the  parties   appear  for 
themselves.     Twelve  hoys  represent  the  jury.) 

Judge.     Which  of  you  is  plaintiff? 

Ogden.  I  am  plaintiff.  {ProdiLcing  a  paper.)  The 
clerk  has  my  statement  of  the  case. 

Clerk.  (Reads.)  I  claim  a  fishing-pole  as  mine,  which 
Warner  has  and  will  not  give  me. 

Judge.  Well,  Ogden,  it  is  your  turn  first.  Proceed 
with  your  proof. 

Ogden.  I  wish  first  to  prove  that  the  fishing-pole  was 
mine,  and  that  I  valued  it  very  much.  Warner  pretends 
that  he  bought  it  of  me ;  but  that  is  for  him  to  prove, 
after  I  have  proved  that  it  was  originally  mine. 

Judge.  Yes,  that  will  be  the  right  way  of  proceeding. 
You  must  begin  with  your  witnesses. 

Ogden.  My  first  witness  is  Clicket.  Come  forward, 
Clicket,  and  give  your  evidence. 

(Clicket  comes  forward   and    takes  his  stand  at    the  phice  appro- 
priated to  the  witnesses. 

Ogden.  Well,  now,  go  on,  Clicket,  and  tell  about  my 
getting  this  fishing-pole  in  New  York. 

Clicket.  It  was  about  ten  days  ago  that  you  bought  it. 
You  and  I  got  leave 

Judge.  Tell  the  story  to  the  jury,  Clicket,  and  not  to 
Ogden. 

Clicket.  {Turning  to  the  jury.)  Ogden  and  I  got  leave 
to  go  to  New  York  Saturday  afternoon.  We  ran  off 
immediately  after  dinner,  so  as  to  catch  the  two  o'clock 
train.  I  wanted  Ogden  to  be  my  horse  going  down,  so 
that  we  could  go  faster,  but  he  would  not ;  however  we 

*  From  Harper's  Story  Books, written  by  Jacob  Abbott.  We  commend 
the«e  books  m  fiill  of  instruction,  pleasantly  given. 


208  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

had  plenty  of  time,  for  we  got  there  ten  minutes  before 
the  train  came  along. 

Judge.  But,  Clicket,  this  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
fishing-pole.  You  need  not  tell  the  jury  all  the  particu- 
lars about  your  going  to  New  York. 

Clicket.  I  am  coming  to  the  pole  pretty  soon.  When 
we  got  to  New  York,  we  got  out  at  Twenty-seventh 
street,  because  I  wanted  to  walk  down  Broadway.  At 
first  Ogden  thought  we  had  better  go  on  to  Canal  street, 
but  at  last  he  agreed  to  get  out  at  Twenty-seventh  street. 

Judge.  But,  Clicket,  all  this  has  nothing  to  do  with 
the  fishing-pole.     You  must  come  to  the  point. 

Clicket.  I  am  coming  to  it  as  fast  as  I  can.  I  can't 
come  to  it  till  we  get  down  to  the  Battery,  because  Ogden 
did  not  buy  the  pole  till  after  we  got  there. 

Judge.  Very  well ;  then  come  to  the  Battery  at  once, 
and  tell  us  about  buying  the  pole. 

Clicket.  I  will.  When  we  got  to  the  Battery,  we 
stopped  there  a  little  while,  to  look  at  the  ships.  Pretty 
soon  we  began  to  walk  along  the  piers  on  the  North 
River  side.  We  saw  some  men  loading  a  ship  with 
grain.  They  had  a  horse  to  hoist  the  loads  up,  and  we 
stopped  a  while  to  look  at  them.  I'll  tell  you  just  how 
they  did  it. 

Judge.  We  don't  want  to  know  how  they  did  it, 
Clicket.  This  is  not  the  right  time  nor  place  to  tell  these 
long  stories.  We  are  trying  a  case  now  about  a  fishing- 
pole.  We  want  to  hear  about  that,  and  nothing  else. 
You  must  come  right  to  the  point. 

Clioket.  Very  well.  That  I'll  do.  We  were  walking 
along  somewhere  about  pier  No.  7  or  8 ;  I  rather  think 
it  was  No.  8. 

Judge.  It  is  of  no  consequence  what  number  it  was, 
Clicket.     Go  on  with  the  story. 

Clicket.  We  saw  a  parcel  of  reed-poles  leaning  up 
against  a  store,  where  there  were  some  sailors  standing 
about.  Says  I  to  Ogden,  Do  you  suppose  those  Sshing- 
poles  are  for  sale  ?  Yes,  says  Ogden  to  me,  of  course ; 
every  thing  in  New  York  is  for  sale.  Says  I,  They  are 
grand  long  fishing-poles.  Says  he.  Yes,  and  I  have  a 
great  mind  to  buy  one.  Says  I,  If  you  should  buy  one, 
vou  could  not  get  it  home.     Yes,  says  he,  I  could  take  it 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  209 

with  me  in  the  cars.  Don't  you  think  the  train  is  long 
enough  ?  I  told  him  Yes,  but  I  thought  he  had  better 
buy  a  jointed  fishing-pole,  for  that  he  could  take  to  pieces 
and  shut  up  in  a  little  bundle  that  he  could  take  under 
his  arm.  But  he  said  he  did  not  like  the  jointed  fishing- 
poles.  The  joints,  he  said,  were  always  getting  out  of 
ord<3r.  Sometimes  they  were  so  loose  tliat  they  would 
not  hold  together  at  all,  and  sometimes  they  were  so 
tight  that  you  could  not  get  them  apart.  He  had  rather 
have  one  good  reed-pole,  he  said,  than  a  dozen  jointed 
ones. 

Judge.  Never  mind  all  that  conversation.  Did  he 
buy  a  pole  ? 

CUcket.  Yes,  he  bought  a  pole,  and  gave  twenty-five 
cents  for  it,  and  we  brought  it  home. 

Judge.  '  That's  all  we  want  to  know.  Why  could  not 
you  have  told  us  that  in  the  first  instance? 

CUcket  {Looking  'puzzled^  Why,  I  came  to  it  as  quick 
as  I  could.     {Laughter  in  ike  court.) 

Ogden.  That  is  all  I  have  to  prove  by  this  witness,  so 
you  may  go,  Clicket. 

Warner.  Let  him  stay  a  moment;  I  want  to  cross- 
examine  him  a  little.  You  say,  Clicket,  that  you  and 
Ogden  brought  the  pole  home.  I  should  like  to  know 
how  you  brought  it  home. 

Clicket.  I'll  tell  you  how.  We  brought  it  up  into 
Broadway,  and  carried  it  about  with  us  wherever  we 
went  for  a  little  while ;  but  we  found  that  it  was  very 
troublesome,  for  the  pole  was  continually  knocking 
against  the  people  that  we  met;  and,  besides,  Ogden  was 
afraid  it  would  get  split.  So  we  carried  it  to  the  station, 
and  gave  it  to  a  man  there,  and  told  him  if  he  would 
take  care  of  it  for  us  till  the  seven  o'clock  train,  we 
would  give  him  three  cents,  or  an  orange,  whichever  he 
pleased.  He  said  he  had  rather  have  the  three  cents  and 
buy  his  own  oranges.  So  we  agreed  to  give  him  three 
cents,  and  went  away.  {Turning  to  the  Judge.)  Shall  1 
teii  them  about  what  we  did  the  rest  of  the  afternoon? 

Judge.  No,  no;  tell  them  only  what  you  did  at  seven 
o'clock  to  bring  the  polo  home. 

Clicket.  We  went  to  the  station  a  good  while  before 
the  time,  because  Ogden  thought  that  he  might  have 

18* 


210  ENTERTAININa    DIALOGUES. 

Bome  trouble  with  the  fishing-pole.  We  found  the  man 
we  had  giveu  it  to,  and  he  gave  it  back  to  us,  and  we 
gave  him  the  three  cents.  Now,  says  I,  Ogden,  how  are 
vou  going  to  carry  it?  Are  you  going  to  put  it  in  the 
baggage-car  ?  Is  o,  says  he,  the  baggage-car  is  not  long 
enough  to  take  it  in.  So  we  went  to  the  baggage-car 
and  measured,  and  found  the  pole  was  a  great  deal  too 
long.  Could  you  not  put  it  on  the  top  ?  says  I.  No, 
says  he,  there's  no  way  to  fasten  it  there.  Then,  says  I, 
we  must  stand  on  the  platform  all  the  way,  and  hold  it 
upright.  No,  says  he,  because,  in  that  case,  when  we 
pass  under  a  bridge  or  through  a  tunnel,  the  top  would 
strike,  and  so  be  broken  off.  Then,  says  I,  we  must  hold 
it  crosswise.  No,  says  he,  for  then,  when  we  go  over  a 
bridge,  both  ends  would  strike  against  the  timbers. 
Then,  says  I,  I  don't  see  what  you  will  do :  I  don't  see 
any  other  way.  Ogden  said  there  were  two  or  three 
other  ways.  One  way,  said  he,  would  be  to  slide  it  in 
under  the  cars ;  but  he  did  not  like  to  do  that,  because 
the  man  would  not  let  him  crawl  under  to  tie  it  there ; 
and  then,  besides,  there  would  not  be  time  to  untie  it  and 
take  it  away  when  the  train  stopped  for  them  to  get  out. 
He  said  a  better  way  than  that  would  be  for  him  and  me 
to  go  with  it  to  the  last  car  in  the  train,  and  stand  with 
it  on  the  platform  behind,  and  hold  it  there,  just  as  if  we 
were  fishing  from  the  stern  of  a  vessel.  But  he  said  he 
did  not  like  that  way  very  well.  Another  way  he 
thought  of  was  to  carry  the  pole  into  the  car,  and  lay  it 
along  on  the  tops  of  the  seats,  close  under  the  windows ; 
but  he  was  afraid  to  put  it  there,  for  fear  that  somebody 
might  come  in  and  undertake  to  turn  the  back  of  some 
seat,  without  seeing  that  the  pole  was  there,  and  so  split 
it. 

Jvdge.  But,  Clicket,  we  don't  want  to  hear  about  all 
these  ways  in  which  you  did  not  bring  the  pole.  What 
we  want  to  know  is  how  you  did  bring  it.  Come  right 
to  the  point  at  once,  and  tell  us  how  you  did  bring  it. 

Clicket.  I'll  tell  you.  This  was  the  way :  Ogden  took 
a  piece  of  twine  that  he  had  in  his  pocket,  and  cut  it  in 
two,  so  as  to  make  two  strings.  Then  he  gave  me  one, 
and  took  the  other  himself.  I  went  with  my  string  to 
one  of  the  windows  near  the  front  end  of  the  car — the 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  211 

longest  car  in  the  train.  I  let  my  string  out  of  the  win- 
dow, and  Ogden,  who  stood  outside  with  the  pole,  tied 
the  end  of  the  string  round  the  pole  pretty  near  the  big 
end.  Then  I  drew  the  string  in,  so  as  to  bring  the  big 
end  of  the  pole  up  to  the  side  of  the  car,  close  under  the 
window.  Then  I  shut  down  the  window  upon  the  string, 
BO  as  to  hold  it  there.  Now,  says  Ogden,  go  to  the  other 
end  of  the  car,  and  we'll  fasten  the  other  end  of  the  pole 
there  in  the  same  way.  So  we  did.  We  had  time  to  do 
all  this,  for  we  were  so  early  that  there  were  few  people 
in  the  cars.  Then,  when  we  had  it  all  done,  Ogden  took 
his  seat  by  one  of  the  windows  wheie  a  string  came  in, 
and  I  took  my  seat  at  the  other,  and  so  we  were  by  the 
pole  all  the  way. 

Judge.  And  how  did  you  manage  in  getting  the  pole 
off  when  the  train  stopped  at  our  station  ? 

Clickel.  Why,  we  had  our  knives  all  ready  as  soon  as 
we  got  upon  the  platform,  and  I  went  to  one  end  of  the 
pole,  and  Ogden  to  the  other,  and  we  cut  the  strings  both 
at  the  same  time,  and  so  took  the  pole  away. 

Warner.  Very  well ;  I  have  no  more  questions  to 
ask. 

Ogden.  Then,  Clicket,  you  may  go.  The  reason,  gen- 
tlemen of  the  jury,  why  I  brought  this  witness  in  to 
prove  these  facts,  is  not  only  that  you  may  see  that  the 
pole  was  really  mine,  but  also  that  you  may  understand 
now  much  trouble  I  took  to  get  it  here,  and  how  much  I 
valued  it. 

Judge.  Very  well ;  that  was  very  right  and  proper. 
Now,  Warner,  you  claim  that  you  bought  this  pole,  I 
understand. 

Warner.     Yes,  I  do. 

Judge.     Very  well ;  proceed  to  prove  it. 

Warner.     My  first  witness  is  Moses. 

Judge.  Come  forward,  Moses,  and  give  in  your  evi- 
dence. 

Warner.  I  want  you  to  tell  the  jury,  Moses,  what 
you  recollect  about  a  bargain  I  made  with  Ogden  about 
the  fishing-pole. 

Moses.  It  was  yesterday  afternoon.  We  were  all  sit- 
ting on  a  seat  near  the  pond. 

Judge.     Whom  do  you  mean  by  all? 


212  ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES. 

Moses.  Ogden,  Warner,  Barker,  and  I;  and  Jenny 
was  playing  about  pretty  near  there,  by  the  side  of  War- 
ner's pier. 

Judge.  Was  it  at  Warner's  pier  where  you  were  at 
the  time? 

Moses.  Yes ;  Warner  had  been  setting  up  a  flag-staff 
near  his  pier,  and  now  he  was  making  a  flag  to  hoist 
upon  it.  Ogden  was  making  a  drawing  of  the  seat  on 
the  point  of  land  nearly  opposite.  While  they  were 
there,  they  began  to  talk  about  Ogden's  swapping  his 
fishing-pole  for  a  pair  of  compasses  that  belonged  to 
Warner. 

Warner.     Who  proposed  the  trade  first  ? 

Moses.     You  did  not  propose  it ;  Ogden  did. 

Judge.  Give  your  answer  to  the  jury,  Moses,  not  to 
Warner.  Warner  asks  you  the  questions,  but  he  asks 
them  for  the  benefit  of  the  jury,  for  it  is  they  who  have 
this  question  to  decide ;  so  you  must  address  your  an- 
swer to  them. 

Moses.  {Turning  to  the  jury.)  Ogden  proposed  it;  at 
least  he  said  he  would  not  sell  his  pole  for  money,  and 
he  did  not  know  of  any  thing  that  Warner  had  he  would 
exchange  it  for,  unless  it  was  his  compasses. 

Warner.     And  did  I  offer  him  my  compasses  for  it? 

Moses.     Yes;  and  he  said   "Well." 

Judge.  And  so  you  understood  that  the  bargain  was 
concluded  ? 

Moses.  At  any  rate,  he  said  "Well."  He  asked  War- 
ner where  the  compasses  were.  Warner  said  they  were 
up  in  his  room,  and  Ogden  asked  him  to  go  and  get  them. 
He  said  he  would,  and  he  did. 

Judge.  He  brought  them  down,  and  gave  them  to 
Ogden  ? 

Moses.     Yes. 

Judge.     And  Ogden  received  them  ? 

Moses.  Yes ;  he  took  them,  looked  at  them,  and  put 
them  in  his  pocket,  and  then  went  on  with  his  draw- 
ing. 

Warner.  And  now  about  the  pole — tell  the  judge 
about  his  delivering  the  pole. 

Moses.  Warner  asked  him  where  the  pole  was,  and  he 
told  him  that  it  was  in  the  long  shed,  hung  there  under 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  213 

a  certain  beam.     Warner  asked  him  if  lie  might  go  and 
get  it,  and  Ogden  said  "Yes ; "  so  Warner  went  and  got  it. 

Jud/je.  You  are  positive  that  Ogden  distinctly  gave 
Warner  leave  to  get  the  pole,  are  you,  Moses  ? 

Mosfs.  Yes,  I  am.  Warner  said,  "  T  am  going  to  get 
it— shall  T?"  and  Ogden  said  "  Yes." 

Jiidge,  Very  well.  This  looks  so  far  very  much  like 
a  regular  bargam,  with  the  delivery  of  the  property  to 
consummate  it.  However,  we  will  wait  to  hear  what 
the  other  party  have  to  say.  Is  this  all  you  want  of  this 
witness,  Warner? 

Warner.  No;  I  wish  to  ask  him  another  question. 
Tell  the  jury,  Moses,  whether  any  thing  was  said  about 
the  condition  that  the  compasses  were  in. 

Moses.  Yes,  there  was  something  said  about  it,  but  I 
did  not  hear  it  all.  One  thing  was,  Warner  said  the 
brass  was  tarnished ;  but  Ogden  said  he  did  not  care  any 
thing  about  that — he  could  rub  it  bright  again  very 
easily.  Warner  said,  besides,  something  about  the  points 
being  dull,  and  the  joints  being  loose ;  and  Ogden  said  he 
did  not  care  any  thing  about  those  things  either. 

Warner.  So  the  jury  will  please  to  observe  that  it 
was  understood,  at  the  time  the  bargain  was  made,  that 
the  compasses  were  not  in  very  good  condition,  so  that 
the  plaintiff  can  not  disavow  the  bargain  on  that  account. 
I  have  no  more  questions  to  ask,  and  I  think  I  have 

E roved  that  Ogden  sold  the  fishing-pole  to  me,  and  thai 
e  got  what  he  bargained  for  as  pay  for  it. 
Ogden.  Before  this  witness  goes,  I  wish  to  ask  him 
one  question,  and  I  also  wish  the  jury  to  remember  the 
old  proverb  about  one  story  being  good  till  another  is 
told.  I  think  I  can  bring  forward  some  evidence  that 
will  throw  new  light  upon  this  transaction.  I  do  not, 
however,  mean  at  all  to  impugn  Moses'  testimony;  all 
that  he  has  said  is  strictly  true,  I  have  no  doubt ;  but 
there  are  some  other  facts  that  you  ought  to  know  before 
you  decide  the  questio:..  I  snail  bring  forward  other 
witnesses  to  prove  these  additional  facts;  but  first  I  want 
to  ask  Moses  one  question.  You  said,  Moses,  I  believe, 
that  you  did  not  hear  all  we  said  about  the  condition 
that  the  compasses  were  in  ? 
Moses.     Yes,  I  did  say  so. 


214  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Ogden.     What  is  the  reason  you  did  not  hear  ? 

Moses.     Why,  I  did  not  pay  much  attention. 

Ogden.     Why  did  you  not  pay  attention  ? 

Mos(s.  I  was  busy  at  the  time  untangling  my  kite 
string,  and  looking  at  the  pictures  in  a  little  story-book 
tliat  Jenny  had  there. 

Ogden.  So  you  don't  think  you  heard  all  the  conver- 
sation that  passed,  distinctly  ? 

Moses.  No,  I  only  heard  what  I  have  told  you ;  but  J 
am  YQTj  sure  that  all  I  have  told  you  is  true. 

Ogden.  I  have  no  doubt  of  it  at  all.  But  you  may 
go  now,  and  I  wish  Barker  to  come. 

{Here  Moses  retires^  and  BarJcer  takes  his  place  on  the  witness-stand.') 

Ogden.  Did  you  hear  Warner  offer  me  his  compasses 
for  my  fishing-pole  ? 

Barker.     Yes,  I  did. 

Ogden.  What  were  you  doing  at  the  time.  Tell  the 
j^ry. 

Barker.     I  was  looking  on  to  see  Ogden  draw. 

Judge.  And  you  were  listening  to  the  conversation  at 
the  same  time,  I  suppose  ? 

Barker.     Yes,  I  was  paying  particular  attention  to  it. 

Ogden.  Moses  stated  that,  when  Warner  made  me 
that  offer,  I  said  "Well."  How  did  I  say  it — I  mean,  in 
what  tone  of  voice  ?  Did  I  say  it  decidedly,  as  if  1 
meant  to  settle  the  question,  or  in  a  doubtful  tone  ? 

Barker.     You  said  it  in  a  doubtful  tone. 

Judge.  Are  you  confident  of  that,  Barker  ?  Because 
that  is  a  very  important  point. 

Barker.  Yes,  I  am  very  confident  of  it ;  not  only  be- 
cause I  remember  distinctly  the  tone  itself,  but  also  from 
what  he  said  at  the  same  time. 

Judge.     What  was  it  that  he  said? 

Barker.  He  said  perhaps  he  would,  or  he  rather 
tiiought  he  would,  or  something  of  that  sort. 

Ogden.  Well,  now,  Barker,  you  heard  what  Moses 
said  in  regard  to  the  conversation  that  took  place  be- 
tween me  and  Warner  in  respect  to  the  condition  the 
compasses  were  in.  Was  any  thing  else  said  besides 
what  Moses  repeated  ? 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  215 

BurkcfT.  Yes ;  Ogden  said  he  did  uot  care  any  thing 
about  the  brass  being  tarnished,  because  he  could  easily 
polish  it  again — nor  about  the  joint  being  loose,  for  he 
could  easily  tighten  it  by  turning  the  screw  or  hammer- 
ing the  rivet — nor  about  the  points  being  dull,  because  he 
could  easily  sharpen  them.  The  only  thing  he  cared 
about,  he  said,  was  that  the  points  should  be  of  steel. 
He  said  that  the  points  of  some  compasses  were  made  of 
iron,  and  some  of  steel,  and  that  iron  points  would  not 
stand  at  all  for  nice  work.  He  did  not  care  how  dull  the 
points  were,  he  said,  if  they  were  only  of  steel,  for  he 
could  grind  them  down  and  sharpen  them  himself  as  fine 
as  needles. 

Judge.     What  did  Warner  say  to  this  ? 

Barker.  He  asked  him  how  he  could  tell  whether  they 
were  of  steel  or  of  iron.  Ogden  said  he  could  tell  very 
easily  when  he  came  to  see  them  and  examine  the  points. 
He  could  tell  by  the  kind  of  dullness.  If  the  dullness 
was  made  by  the  points  having  broken  off  without  any 
bending,  that  would  show  they  were  of  steel ;  but  if  the 
points  were  bent,  that  would  show  they  were  of  iron ;  so 
Warner  said  he  would  go  and  get  the  compasses,  and 
let  him  see. 

Ogden.     And  he  brought  the  compasses  down  ? 

Barker.  Yes;  he  went  to  the  house,  got  the  com- 
passes, and  brought  them  down,  and  handed  them  to 
you. 

Ogden.     Address  the  jury  in  your  answers. 

Barker.     {Continuing.)     He  handed  them  to  Ogden. 

Judge.  And  how  did  Ogden  receive  them  ?  What 
did  he  say  ?  Be  particular  in  this,  because  it  is  a  very 
important  point. 

Barker.  He  took  them  and  looked  at  them,  and  then 
handed  them  to  me,  and  then  asked  me  what  I  thought. 
1  told  him  I  could  not  tell.  Then  he  took  them  again, 
and  said  he  could  not  tell  very  well  without  his  magnify- 
ing-glass,  and  that  he  could  take  them  up  to  the  liousc 
when  he  went  home,  and  see.  So  he  put  them  in  his 
pocket.     He  rather  thought  they  were  steel. 

Ogden.  Now  there  is  one  thing  more.  The  other  side 
attempted  to  prove  that  I  delivered  the  fishing-pole  to 
Warner  by  telling  him  where  it  was.  and  authorizing 


216  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

him  to  go  and  get  it.     Eelate  to  the  jury  what  the  con- 
versation was  in  respect  to  that. 

Barker.  Warner  said  that  he  did  not  believe  but  that 
the  fishing-pole  was  cracked.  He  said  he  never  knew  a 
reed  fishing-pole  that  had  belonged  to  a  boy  a  week  that 
was  not  cracked  in  some  joint  or  other,  and  generally  in 
two  or  three  joints.  So  Ogden  told  him  that  he  might 
go  and  get  the  fishing-p  )le  and  see. 

Judge.     Very  well ;  and  that  is  all  you  know  about  it. 

Barker.  Yes,  except  that  a  little  while  afterward, 
when  Ogden  had  finished  his  drawing,  we  went  up  to  the 
house,  and  there  we  saw  Warner  with  the  fishing-pole, 
which  he  said  was  his.  Ogden  said  No ;  that  the  bar- 
gain was  not  concluded ;  that  he  had  not  yet  decided  to 
take  the  compasses.  Warner  said  that  he  did  decide  to 
take  them  if  the  points  were  of  steel,  and  that  they  were 
of  steel,  he  said ;  so  it  was  all  settled.  Then  Ogden  said 
that,  before  going  any  further,  he  would  go  to  court  with 
the  case,  and  have  it  decided  whether  the  fishing-pole 
was  already  Warner's  or  not. 

Ogden.  That  is  all  I  have  to  ask  this  witness,  and  I 
have  no  other  witnesses. 

Judge.  {To  Warner.)  Do  you  wish  to  cross-examine 
this  witness? 

Warner.     No,  I  believe  not. 

Judge.  Then  the  next  thing  is  to  hear  what  the 
parties  have  to  say  to  the  jury  before  the  jury  decide. 
Ogden,  you  are  plaintiff;  it  is  your  turn  first. 

Ogden.  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  I  have  proved  to  you 
that  this  was  my  pole.  I  bought  it  in  New  York,  and 
Clicket  and  I  brought  it  here,  and  we  took  a  great  deal 
of  pains  in  doing  it.  It  is  a  vxiluable  pole,  and  I  have 
no  idea  of  letting  it  go  out  of  my  possession  till  I  have 
actually  sold  it.  Talking  about  selling  a  pole  is  one 
thing,  and  actually  concluding  the  sale  of  it  is  another. 
r  maintain  that,  although  in  this  case  we  talked  about  a 
trade,  and  although  we  have  not  yet  decided  not  to  make 
it,  still  it  is  not  yet  concluded,  and,  until  it  is  concluded, 
the  pole  is  mine,  and  I  have  a  right  to  it ;  and,  accord- 
ingly, that  you  ought  to  decide  that  Warner  should  give 
it  up  to  me. 

Judge.     Well,  Warner,  what  have  you  to  say  ? 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  217 

Warner.  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  I  have  proved  that 
we  agreed  to  make  this  trade,  provided  that  I  foand  the 
pole  not  cracked,  and  that  he  found  the  points  of  the 
compasses  were  of  steel.  He  took  the  compasses  and 
examined  them,  and  could  not  deny  but  that  they  were* 
of  steel;  I  took  the  pole  and  examined  it,  and  found  it 
was  not  cracked ;  so  I  think  the  bargain  is  all  settled. 

For,  even  by  his  own  showing,  he  is  bound  to  take  the 
compasses  if  he  finds,  when  he  comes  to  examine  them 
with  a  microscope,  that  the  points  are  of  steel.  If  he 
were  to  wait  till  he  had  examined  them,  and  were  really 
to  find  that  they  are  of  iron,  then  I  confess  that  he 
might  claim  the  pole  again.  But  he  has  not  done  that; 
and,  even  if  I  give  him  the  pole  now,  and  he  finds  the 
points  of  the  compasses  are  of  steel,  then  I  could  come 
to  him  and  claim  the  pole  again,  and  it  makes  no  differ- 
ence whether  I  keep  it  now  or  take  it  then. 

Judge.  Ogden,  have  you  any  thing  more  to  say  ? 
You  are  entitled  to  the  last  word,  if  you  wish  it. 

Ogden.  I  wish  to  say,  in  regard  to  the  last  point  that 
Warner  made,  that  I  do  not  deny  that  I  shall  be  obliged 
to  give  him  the  pole  for  the  compasses  in  case,  after  I 
examine  them,  I  find  the  points  to  be  of  steel ;  nor,  on 
the  other  hand,  do  I  admit  it.  I  neither  deny  it  nor  ad- 
mit it.  I  say  nothing  about  it.  We  have  not  come  to 
that  yet.  The  question  before  this  jury  is  not  whether 
I  shall  be  obliged  to  give  him  my  pole  when  I  find  the 
points  of  the  compasses  are  all  right,  but  whether  I  have 
already  given  it  to  him.  That  is  to  say,  the  question  is 
not  whether  he  will  have  a  right  to  claim  the  pole  by 
and  by,  but  whether  it  is  .his  now. 

Judge.  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  the  question  you  have 
to  decide  is  a  very  simple  one.  Was  the  bargain  con- 
cluded ?  Did  the  parties  come  to  a  conclusion  that  they 
would  make  this  exchange,  and  did  Ogden  receive  the 
compasses  as  his  property,  delivered  to  him  by  Warner, 
and  did  he  deliver  the  pole  as  property  that  he  had  con- 
veyed to  Warner?  Or,  were  the  articles  received  and 
delivered  only  for  examination,  with  a  view  to  decide 
contingencies  on  which  the  consummation  of  the  bargain 
was  to  depend?  If  you  think  that  the  bargain  was  con- 
cluded, then  you  must  decide  that  Warner  has  a  right  to 

19 


218  ENTERTAlxVING  DIALOGUES. 

keep  the  pole.  If  you  decide  it  was  not  concluded,  Og- 
d(m  is  entitled  to  the  possession  of  the  pole  until  it  is, 
and  Warner  must  give  it  up  to  him. 

{The  jury  retire  for  a  few  minutes^  and  then  rettrn.) 

Judge.  Are  you  ready  with  your  verdict  ?  II  so,  you 
will  answer  by  your  foreman. 

J^oreman.  Our  decision  is  that  the  bargain  -was  not 
concluded,  and  the  pole  belongs  to  Ogden. 


DIALOGUE   LXV. 

SELF-INTEREST. 

Scene. — An  Inn.     Enter  Hostess  and  Bettt. 

Hostess.     Betty ! 

Betty.     Here,  madam. 

Hostess.     Where's  your  master  ? 

Betty.     He's  without,  madam ;  and  has  sent  me  loi 
shirt,  to  lend  a  poor  man  who  has  been  robbed  and  mur- 
dered on  the  road. 

Hostess.  Touch  one  if  you  dare  I  Your  master  is  a 
pretty  sort  of  man  to  take  in  naked  vagabonds,  and  clothe 
them  with  his  own  clothes.  I'll  have  no  such  doings. 
If  you  touch  one  I'll  throw  this  knife  at  your  head.  Go, 
send  your  master  to  me.     {Exit  Betty.) 

Pretty  work,  pretty  work  this,  truly.  We  should 
make  fine  way  ahead,  if  my  husband  were  at  helm. 

(Enter  Mr.  Towlouse.) 

What  do  you  mean  by  this,  Mr.  Towlouse?  Am  I  to 
buy  shirts  to  lend  to  a  set  of  dirty  rascals  ? 

Towlouse.     My  dear,  this  is  a  poor  wretch 

Hostess.  I  know  it  is  a  poor  wretch ;  but  what  have 
we  to  do  with  poor  wretches  ?  The  law  makes  us  pro- 
vide for  too  many  already. 

Towlouse.  My  dear,  this  man  has  been  robbed  of  all 
he  had. 


ENTERTAININ(}  DIALOGUES.  219 

Hostess.  Well,  where's  his  money  then  to  pay  his  reck- 
oning. Why  doth  not  such  a  fellow  go  to  a  poor-house  ? 
I  shall  send  him  packing  immediately,  I  assure  you. 

Towlonse,  My  dear,  common  charity  won't  suffer  you 
to  do  that. 

Hostess.  Common  charity,  indeed  I  Common  charity 
leaches  us  to  provide  for  ourselves  and  our  families,  and 
I  and  mine  won't  be  ruined  by  your  charities,  I  assure 
you. 

Towhuse.  Well,  my  dear,  do  as  you  will ;  you  know 
I  never  contradict  you. 

{Enter  Surgeon.) 

Surgeon,  I  come  to  acquaint  you  that  your  guest  is  lu 
such  extreme  danger  that  I  can  scarcely  see  any  hopes 
of  his  recovery. 

Hostess.  Here's  a  pretty  kettle  of  fish  you  have 
brought  upon  us !  We  are  like  to  have  a  funeral  at  our 
own  expense. 

Towhuse.  My  dear,  I  am  not  to  blame.  He  was 
brought  hither  by  the  stage-coach,  and  Betty  had  put 
him  to  bed  before  I  was  stirring. 

Hostess.  And  what  induced  Tom  Whipwell  to  bring 
such  guests  to  my  house,  when  there  are  so  many  ale- 
houses on  the  road,  proper  for  their  reception? 

{Enter  Betty.) 

Betty.  The  wounded  man  begs  you,  for  mercy's  sake, 
to  let  him  have  a  little  tea. 

•  Hostess.     Tea,  indeed  I     Nothing  will  serve  his  deli- 
cate stomach,  then,  but  tea.     Tea  costs  money,  tell  him. 

Betty.  I  am  sure,  madam,  you  will  lose  nothing  by 
serving  this  gentleman ;  for  I  know  he  is  one,  by  the  deli- 
cacy of  his  skin. 

Hostess.  Plague  on  his  skin!  I  suppose  that  is  all  we 
are  like  to  have  for  his  reckoning.  I  desire  no  such 
gentlemen  should  ever  call  at  the  Dragon,  But  there  is 
a  carriage  at  the  door.  Run,  Towlouse,  and  lead  them 
into  the  best  parlor.  Law  I  how  neglectful  you  are,  Mr. 
Towlouse — here  is  the  gentleman,  now. 


220  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

{Enter  a  Stranger^  in  a  great  cloak.) 

Betty,  go  and  tell  the  murdered  man  to  pack  up  and 
be  off,  and  make  ready  something  for  this  gentleman's 
suj)per. 

Stranger.     What  murdered  man  do  you  speak  of? 

Hostess.  O,  sir,  only  a  poor  wretch,  who  was  knocked 
down  and  robbed  on  the  high-road  a  few  hours  ago. 

Stranger.     Are  there  no  hopes  of  his  recovery  ? 

Surgeon.  I  defy  all  the  surgeons  in  London  to  do  him 
any  good. 

Stranger.     Pray,  sir,  what  are  his  wounds  1 

Surgeon.     Why,  do  you  know  any  thing  of  wounds  ? 

Stranger.  Sir,  I  have  a  slight  acquaintance  with  sur- 
gery. 

Surgeon.  A  slight  acquaintance — ha !  ha  I  ha !  I  be- 
lieve it  is  a  slight  one,  indeed.  I  suppose,  sir,  you  have 
traveled. 

Stranger.     No,  sir. 

Surgeon.     Have  practiced  in  the  hospitals,  perhaps  ? 

Stranger.     No,  sir. 

Surgeon.  Whence,  then,  sir,  if  I  may  be  so  bold  as  to 
inquire,  have  you  got  your  knowledge  in  surgery  ? 

Stranger.  Sir,  I  do  not  pretend  to  much ;  but  the  lit- 
tle I  know  I  have  acquired  from  books. 

Surgeon.  Books!  Aye,  I  suppose  you  understand 
physic  too,  as  well  as  surgery.     {A  general  laugh.) 

Stranger.     Rather  better. 

Surgeon.  Aye,  like  enough.  {Winhing.)  Why,  1 
know  a  little  of  physic  too. 

Towhuse.  I  wish  I  knew  half  as  much ;  I'd  never  wear 
an  apron  again. 

Surgeon.  Why,  I  believe,  landlord,  there  are  few  men, 
though  I  say  it,  that  handle  a  fever  better. 

Stranger.  I  am  thoroughly  convinced,  sir,  of  your 
great  learning  and  skill ;  but  I  will  thank  you  to  let  me 
know  your  opinion  of  the  patient's  case  above  stairs. 

Surgeon.  Sir,  {with  much  solemnity^)  his  case  is  that  of 
a  dead  man.  The  contusion  on  his  head  has  perforated 
the  internal  membrane  of  the  occiput,  and  divellicated 
that  radical,  small,  minute,  invisible  nerve,  which  coheres 
to  the  pericranium 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  221 

Stranger.  That  will  do,  sir.  You  have  convinced  me 
that  jou  are 

Surgeon.     Are  what,  sir? 

Stranger.  A  quack!  whose  aim  is  to  impose  upon  the 
ignoi*ant  and  unfortunate. 

Surgeon.     And  what  are  you,  sir? 

Stranger.  Surgeon  to  the  prince,  who  has  just  been 
robbed,  and  lies  ill  in  this  house.  One  of  his  servants, 
who  escaped  when  the  robbery  was  committed,  brought 
me  the  information.  Your  servant,  sir.  {Speaking  to  the 
surgeon^  who  is  making  toward  the  door.)  Now,  landlord, 
conduct  me  to  your  guest.     {Exit^  with  landlord.) 

Hostess.  Betty,  John,  Samuel,  where  are  you  all? 
Have  you  no  ears  or  no  conscience,  not  to  tend  the  sick 
better?  See  what  the  gentleman  wants.  But  any  one 
may  die  for  all  you ;  you  have  no  more  feeling  than  my 
husband.  If  a  man  lived  a  fortnight  in  his  house  with- 
out spending  a  penny,  he  would  never  put  him  in  mind 
of  it.  See  whether  the  gentleman  drinks  tea  or  coffee 
for  supper.     {Exit  servant.) 

{Enter  Mr.  Towlouse.) 

Towhuse.  My  dear,  this  wounded  traveler  must  be  a 
greater  man  than  we  took  him  for.  Some  servants  in 
livery  have  just  arrived  and  inquired  for  him. 

Hostess.  God  forbid  that  I  should  not  discharge  the 
duty  of  a  Christian,  since  the  poor  gentleman  is  brought 
to  our  house.  I  have  a  natural  antipathy  to  vagabonds, 
but  can  pity  the  misfortunes  of  a  Christian  as  soon  as 
another. 

Towhuse.  If  the  traveler  be  a  gentleman,  though  he 
have  no  money  about  him  now,  we  shall  most  likely  be 
paid  hereafter ;  so  you  may  begin  to  score  as  soon  as  you 
please. 

Hostess.  Hold  your  simple  tongue,  and  don't  pretend 
to  instruct  me  in  my  business.  I  am  sure  I  am  soriy  for 
the  gentleman's  misfortune  with  all  my  heart,  and  I  hope 
the  villains,  who  have  used  him  so  barbarously,  will  be 
hanged.  Let  us  go  and  see  what  he  wants.  God  forbid 
he  should  want  any  thing  in  my  house. 


222  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES, 

DIALOGUE   LXVI. 

DUELIST. 

Dialogue  between  Mercury,  an  English  Duelist,  and  a  North  Ameru 
can  Savage. 

Mercury.  Charon's  boat  is  on  the  other  side  of  the 
water ;  allow  me,  before  it  returns,  to  have  some  conver- 
sation with  the  North  American  savage,  whom  you 
brought  hither  at  the  same  time  that  you  conducted  me 
to  the  shades.  I  never  saw  one  of  that  species  before, 
and  am  curious  to  know  what  the  animal  is.  He  looks 
very  grim.  Pray,  sir,  what  is  your  name  ?  I  understand 
you  speak  English. 

Savage.  Yes ;  I  learned  it  in  my  childhood,  having 
been  bred  up  for  some  years  in  the  town  of  New  York : 
but  before  I  was  a  man  I  returned  to  my  countrymen, 
the  valiant  Mohawks,  and,  having  been  cheated  by  one 
of  yours  in  the  sale  of  some  rum,  I  wished  never  to  have 
any  thing  to  do  with  them  afterward.  Yet,  with  the  rest 
of  my  tribe,  I  took  up  the  hatchet  for  them  in  the  war 
aganist  France,  and  was  killed  while  I  was  upon  a  scalp- 
ing-party.  But  I  died  very  well  satisfied  ;  for  my  friends 
were  victorious,  and  before  I  was  shot  I  had  scalped  sev- 
en men  and  five  women  and  children.  In  a  former  war 
I  had  done  still  greater  exploits.  My  name  is  the 
Bloody  Bear :  it  was  given  me  to  denote  my  fierceness 
and  valor. 

Duelist.  Bloody  Bear,  I  respect  you,  and  am  much 
your  humble  servant.  My  name  is  Tom  Pushwell,  very 
well  known  at  Arthur's.  I  am  a  gentleman  by  birth, 
and  by  profession  a  gamester,  and  a  man  of  honor.  I 
have  killed  men  in  fair  fighting,  in  honorable  single 
combat,  but  I  do  not  understand  cutting  the  throats  of 
women  and  children. 

■Savage.  Sir,  that's  our  way  of  making  war.  Every 
nation  has  its  own  customs.  But,  by  the  grimness  in 
your  countenance,  and  that  hole  in  your  breast,  I  pre- 
sume you  were  killed,  as  I  was  myself,  in  some  scalping- 
party.  How  happened  it  that  your  enemy  did  not  take 
off  your  scalp  ? 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  223 

Duelist  Sir,  I  was  killed  in  a  duel.  A  friend  of  mine 
had  lent  nie  some  money ;  after  two  or  three  years,  being 
himself  in  great  want,  he  asked  me  to  pay  him ;  I  thought 
his  demand  an  affront  to  my  honor,  and  sent  him  a  chal- 
lenge. We  met  in  Hyde  Park.  The  fellow  could  not 
fence.  I  was  the  most  adroit  swordsman  in  England  I 
gave  him  three  or  four  wounds ;  but  at  last  he  ran  upon 
me  with  such  impetuosity  that  he  put  me  out  of  my  play, 
and  I  could  not  prevent  him  from  whipping  me  through 
the  lungs.  I  died  the  next  day,  as  a  man  of  honor 
should,  without  any  sniveling  signs  of  repentance ;  and 
he  will  follow  me  soon,  for  his  surgeon  has  declared  his 
wounds  to  be  mortal.  It  is  said  that  his  wife  is  dead  of 
her  fright,  and  that  his  family  of  seven  children  will  be 
undone  by  his  death.  So  I  am  well  revenged ;  and  that 
is  a  comfort.  For  my  part,  I  had  no  wife.  I  always  hat- 
ed marriage. 

Savage.  Mercury,  I  won't  go  in  a  boat  with  that  fel- 
low. He  has  murdered  his  countrymen;  he  has  mur 
dered  his  friend.  I  say,  I  won't  go  in  a  boat  with  that 
fellow.  I  will  swim  over  the  river;  I  can  swim  like  a 
duck. 

Mercury.  Swim  over  the  Styx  I  it  must  not  be  done : 
it  is  against  the  laws  of  Pluto's  empire.  You  must  go  in 
the  boat ;  so  be  quiet. 

Savage.  Do  not  tell  me  of  laws ;  I  am  a  savage  I  I 
value  no  laws.  Talk  of  laws  to  the  Englishman ;  there 
are  laws  in  his  country,  and  yet  you  see  he  did  not  re- 
gard them,  for  they  could  never  allow  him  to  kill  his  fel- 
low-subject in  time  of  peace,  because  he  asked  him  to 
pay  a  debt.  The  English  can  not  be  so  brutal  as  to 
make  such  things  lawful. 

Mercury.  You  reason  well  against  him.  But  how 
comes  it  that  you  are  so  offended  with  murder ;  you  who 
have  massacred  women  in  their  sleep,  and  children  in 
their  cradles? 

Savage.  I  killed  none  but  my  enemies.  I  never  killed 
my  own  countryman ;  I  never  killed  my  friend.  Here, 
take  my  blanket  and  let  it  come  over  in  the  boat,  but  see 
that  the  murderer  does  not  sit  upon  it,  or  touch  it; 
if  he  does,  I  will  burn  it  in  the  fire  I  see  yonder.  Fare- 
well.    I  am  resolved  to  swim  over  the  water. 


224  ENTERTAINIIs  G  DIALOGUES. 

Mercury.  By  this  touch  of  my  wand,  I  take  all  thy 
strength  from  thee.     Swim  now  if  thou  canst. 

Savage.  This  is  a  very  potent  enchanter.  Eestore  me 
my  strength,  and  I  will  obey  thee. 

Mercury.  I  restore  it ;  but  be  orderly  and  do  as  I  bid 
you,  otherwise  worse  will  befall  you. 

Dueliat.  Mercury,  leave  him  to  me,  I  will  tutor  him 
for  you.  Sirrah  I  Savage!  dost  thou  pretend  to  be 
ashamed  of  my  company  ?  Dost  thou  know  that  I  have 
kept  the  best  company  in  England  ? 

Savage.  I  know  thou  art  a  scoundrel !  Not  pay  thy 
debts !  kill  thy  friend,  who  lent  thee  money,  for  asking 
thee  for  it  I  Get  out  of  my  sight,  or  I  will  drive  thee 
into  the  Styx. 

Mercury.  Stop,  I  command  thee.  No  violence.  Talk 
to  him  calmly. 

Savage.  I  must  obey  thee.  Well,  sir,  let  me  know 
what  merit  you  had  to  introduce  you  into  good  company 
What  could  you  do  ? 

Duelist.  Sir,  I  gamed,  as  I  told  you.  Besides  that,  I 
kept  a  good  table.  I  ate  as  well  as  any  man  in  England 
or  France. 

Savage.  Eat  I  Did  you  ever  eat  the  chine  of  a 
Frenchman,  or  his  leg,  or  his  shoulder?  There  is  fine 
eating!  I  have  eaten  twenty.  My  table  was  always 
well  served.  My  wife  was  the  best  cook  for  dressing 
man's  flesh  in  all  North  America.  You  will  not  pretend 
to  compare  your  eating  with  mine. 

Duelist.     I  danced  very  finely. 

Savage.  I  will  dance  with  thee  for  thy  ears.  I  can 
dance  all  day  long.  I  can  dance  the  war  dance  with 
more  spirit  and  vigor  than  any  man  of  my  nation ;  let 
us  see  thee  begin  it.  How  thou  standest  like  a  post! 
Has  Mercury  struck  thee  with  his  enfeebling  rod ;  or  art 
thou  ashamed  to  betray  thy  awkwardness  ?  If  he  would 
permit  me,  I  would  teach  thee  to  dance  in  a  way  that 
thou  hast  not  yet  seen.  I  would  make  thee  caper  and 
leap  like  a  buck.  But  what  else  canst  thou  do,  thou 
bragging  rascal? 

Duelist.  Oh,  heavens!  must  I  bear  this?  What  can 
I  do  with  this  fellow?  I  have  neither  sword  nor  pistol; 
and  his  shade  seems  to  be  twice  as  strong  as  mine. 


ENTERTAININa   DIALOGUES.  225 

Mercury.  You  must  answer  his  questions.  It  was 
vour  own  desire  to  have  a  conversation  with  him.  He 
IS  not  well-bred,  but  he  will  tell  you  some  truths  which 
you  must  hear  in  this  place.  It  would  have  been  well 
-for  you  if  yow  had  heard  them  above.  He  asked  of  you 
what  you  could  do  besides  eating  and  dancing? 

Duelist.     I  sang  very  agreeably. 

Savage.  Let  me  hear  you  sing  your  death-song,  or  the 
war-whoop.  I  challenge  you  to  sing ;  the  fellow  is  mute. 
Mercury,  this  is  a  liar.  He  tells  us  nothing  but  lies. 
Let  me  pull  out  his  tongue. 

Duelist.  The  lie  given  me '  and,  alas !  I  dare  not  n;- 
sent  it.  Oh,  what  a  disgrace  to  the  family  of  the  Push- 
wells  ! 

Mercury.  Here,  Charon,  take  these  two  savages  to 
your  care.  How  far  the  barbarism  of  the  Mohawk  will 
excuse  his  horrid  acts,  I  leave  Minos  to  judge;  but  what 
excuse  can  the  Englishman  plead?  The  custom  of 
dueling?  An  excuse  this  that  in  these  regions  can  not 
avail.  The  spirit  that  made  him  draw  his  sword  in  the 
combat  against  his  friend  is  not  the  spirit  of  honor ;  it  is 
the  spirit  of  the  furies,  of  Alecto  herself.  To  her  he 
must  go,  for  she  has  long  dwelt  in  his  merciless  bosom. 

Savage.  If  he  is  to  be  punished,  turn  him  over  to  me. 
I  understand  the  art  of  tormenting.  Sirrah,  I  begin 
with  this  kick,  as  a  tribute  to  your  boasted  honor.  Get 
you  into  the  boat,  or  I  will  give  you  another.  I  am  im- 
patient to  have  you  condemned. 

Duelist.  Oh,  my  honor,  my  honor,  to  what  infamy  art 
thou  fallen! 


DIALOGUE    LXVIL 

ENNUI. 

Miss  Beverly,  Mr.  Meadows,  am,d  Mr.  Gosport. 

Mr.  Meadows.  Have  you  been  long  in  town,  ma'am  ? 

Miss  Beverly.  No,  sir. 

Mr.  Meadows.  This  is  not  your  first  winter? 

Miss  Beverly.  Of  being  in  town,  it  is,  sir. 


226  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Mr.  Meadows.  Then  you  have  something  new  to  see. 
O,  charming  I  How  I  envy  you  I  Are  you  pleased  with 
the  Pantheon  ? 

Miss  Beverly.  Yery  much,  sir ;  I  have  seen  no  build- 
ing at  all  equal  to  it. 

Mr.  Meadows.  You  have  not  then  been  abroad,  mad- 
am. Traveling  is  the  ruin  of  all  happiness  I  There's  no 
looking  at  a  building  here,  after  seeing  Italy. 

Miss  Beverly.  What!  Does  all  happiness  then  de- 
pend upon  the  sight  of  buildings,  sir  ? 

Mr.  Meadows.  {Gaping^  arid  after  a  pause.)  I  beg 
your  pardon,  ma'am,  you  were  saying  something? 

Miss  Beverly.     No,  sir ;  nothing  worth  repeating. 

Mr.  Meadows.  0,  pray  don't  punish  me  so  severely  as 
Dot  to  let  me  hear  it!  {Gapes.)  Don't  you  find  this 
place  extremely  tiresome,  ma'am  ? 

Miss  Beverly.  Yes,  sir,  (smiling,)  it  is,  indeed,  not  very 
entertaining. 

Mr.  Meadows.  Nothing  is  entertaining  for  two  min 
utes  together.  Things  are  so  little  different,  one  from 
another,  that  there  is  no  making  pleasure  out  of  any 
thing.  We  go  the  same  dull  round  forever;  nothing 
new,  no  variety !  all  the  same  thing  over  again  I  Are 
you  fond  of  public  places.  Ma'am? 

Miss  Beverly.     Yes,  sir ;  moderately  so. 

Mr.  Meadows.  Then  I  envy  you,  extremely ;  for  you 
have  some  amusement  always  in  your  own  power.  How 
desirable  that  is ! 

Miss  Beverly.  And  have  you  not  the  same  resources, 
sir? 

Mr.  Meadows.  Oh,  no !  I  am  tired  to  death  I  tired  of 
every  thing ;  I  would  give  the  universe  for  a  disposition 
less  difficult  to  please.  Yet,  after  all,  what  is  there  to 
give  pleasure?  When  one  has  seen  one  thing,  one  has 
seen  every  thing.  O,  'tis  heavy  work !  Don't  you  find 
it  so,  ma'am  ?  {Gapes,  yawns,  and  stretches  himself.)  The 
first  study  of  life  is  ease.  There  is,  indeed,  no  other 
study  that  pays  the  trouble  of  attainment.  Don't  you 
think  so,  ma'am  ? 

Miss  Beverly.  But,  may  not  even  that,  sir,  by  so  much 
study,  become  labor  ? 

Mr.  Meadoim.     I  am  vastly  happy  you  think  so. 


EXTERTAINIXG    DIALOGUES.  227 

Miss  Beverly.     Sir ! 

Mr.  Meadows.      I   beg  your  pardon,    ma'am,   but   1 

thought  you  said I  really  beg  your  pardon,  but  I 

was  thinking  of  something  else. 

Miss  Beverly.  You  did  very  right,  sir ;  {smiling^)  for 
what  I  said  by  no  means  merited  any  attention. 

Mr.  Meadovjs.  Will  you  do  me  tne  favor  to  repeat  it. 
{Taking  his  glass  out  to  examine  something  at  a  distance.) 

Miss  Beverly.  0,  no,  that  would  be  trying  your  pa- 
tience too  severely. 

Mr.  Meadows.  These  glasses  show  one  nothing  but  de- 
fects. I  am  sorry  they  were  ever  invented ;  they  are  the 
ruin  of  all  beauty — no  complexion  can  stand  them. 

Miss  Beverly.  We  have  excellent  singing  in  the  Pan- 
theon, sir ;   are  you  not  fond  of  that  ? 

Mr.  Meadows.  I  should  be  if  I  could  hear  it ;  but  we 
are. now  so  miserably  off  in  voices,  that  I  hardly  ever  at- 
tempt to  listen  to  a  song  without  fancying  myself  deaf, 
from  the  feebleness  of  the  performers.  I  hate  every 
thing  that  requires  attention.  Nothing  gives  pleasure 
that  does  not  force  its  own  way. 

Miss  Beverly.  You  only  then  like  loud  voices  and 
great  powers? 

Mr.  Meadows.  0,  worse  and  worse !  no,  nothing  is  so 
disgusting  to  me.  All  my  amazement  is  that  these  peo- 
ple think  it  worth  while  to  give  concerts  at  all ;  one  is 
sick  to  death  of  music.  ( Yawns,  and  as  he  turns  from 
Miss  Beverly  she  steps  off  the  stage.) 

{Enter  Mr.  Oosport.,  meeting  Mr.  Meadotos.) 

Gosport.  Why,  Meadows,  how's  this !  are  you  caught 
at  last? 

Mr.  Meadows.  O,  worn  to  death  I  worn  to  a  thread ! 
T  have  been  talking  to  a  young  lady  to  entertain  her  1  O, 
such  heavy  work !  I  would  not  go  through  it  again  for 
millions  I 

Oosport.  What,  have  you  talked  yourself  out  of 
breath  ? 

Mr.  Meadows.  No,  but  the  effort  I  the  effort  I  It  has 
unhinged  me  for  a  fortnight!  Entertaining  a  young 
lady  I  one  had  better  be  a  galley-slave  at  once  I 


228  ENTERTAINING  DIALOG  UES. 

Gosport.     Well,  but  did  she  not  repay  your  toil  ?     She 

is  really  a  sweet  girl. 

Mr.  Meadows.  Nothing  can  repay  one  for  such  insuf- 
ferable exertion !  though  she's  well  enough  too — better 
than  the  common  run — but  shy,  quite  too  shy ;  no  draw- 
ing her  out. 

Gosport.  I  thought  that  was  to  your  taste.  You  com- 
monly hate  much  volubility.  How  have  I  heard  you 
bemoan  yourself  when  attacked  by  Miss  Larolles ! 

Mr.  Meadows.  Larolles !  0,  distraction  L  she  talks  me 
into  a  fever  in  two  minutes.  But  so  it  is  forever!  noth- 
ing but  extremes  to  be  met  with !  Common  girls  are  too 
forward,  this  lady  is  too  reserved — always  some  fault! 
always  some  drawback !  nothing  ever  perfect ! 

Gosport.  Nay,  nay,  sir,  you  do  not  know  her;  she  is 
perfect  enough  in, all  conscience. 

Mr.  Meadows.  Better  not  know  her  then,  for  she  can 
not  be  pleasing.  Nothing  perfect  is  natural;  I  hate 
every  thing  out  of  nature. 


DIALOGUE   LXVIII. 

THE  REVOLUTIONARY  PENSIONER. 

Dialogue  between  Captain  Hardy  and  Nathan. 

Nathan.  Good  morning,  Captain.  How  do  you  stand 
this  hot  weather  ? 

Captain.  Lord  bless  you,  boy,  it's  a  cold-bath  to  what 
we  had  at  Monmouth.  'Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  that  air 
battle  ? 

Nathan.  I  have  always  understood  that  it  was  dread- 
ful hot  that  day  ? 

Captain.  Lord  bless  you,  boy,  it  makes  my  crutch 
sweat  to  think  on't — and,  if  I  didn't  hate  long  stories, 
I'd  tell  you  things  about  that  air  battle  sitch  as  you 
wouldn't  believe,  you  rogue,  if  I  didn't  tell  you.  It 
beats  all  natur  how  hot  it  was. 

Nathan.  I  wonder  you  did  not  all  die  of  heat  and 
fatigue. 

Captain.     Why,  so  we  should,  if  the  reg'lars  had  only 


ENTERTAINIXG  DIALOGUES.  229 

died  first ;  but,  jou  see,  tbey  never  liked  the  Jarseys,  and 
wouldn't  lay  their  bones  there.  Now,  if  I  didn't  hate 
long  stories*  I'd  tell  you  all  about  that  air  business,  for 
you  see  they  don't  do  things  so  nowadays. 

Nathan.  How  so?  Do  not  people  die  as  they  used 
to? 

Captain.  Lord  bless  you,  no.  It  beat  all  natur  to  see 
how  long  the  reg'lars  would  kick  after  we  killed  them. 

Nathan.  What!  kick  after  they  were  killed!  That 
does  beat  all  natur,  as  you  say. 

Captain.  Come,  boy,  no  splitting  hairs  with  an  old 
continental;  for,  you  see,  if  I  didn't  hate  long  stories,  I'd 
tell  you  things  about  this  ere  battle  that  you'd  never  be- 
lieve. Why,  Lord  bless  you,  when  General  Washington 
telled  us  we  might  give  it  to  'em,  we  gin  it  to  'em,  I  tell 
you. 

Nathan.     You  gave  what  to  them  ? 

Captain.  Cold  lead,  you  rogue.  Why,  bless  you,  we 
fired  twice  to  their  once,  you  see ;  and,  if  I  didn't  hate 
long  stories,  I'd  tell  you  how  we  did  it.  You  must 
know  the  reg'lars  wore  their  close-bodied  red  coats,  be- 
cause they  thought  we  were  afeard  on  'em ;  but  we  did 
not  wear  any  coats,  you  see,  because  we  hadn't  anv. 
^Nathan.     How  happened  you  to  be  without  coats? 

Captain.  Why,  Lord  bless  you,  they  would  wear  out, 
and  the  States  couldn't  buy  us  any  more,  you  see,  and 
so  we  marched  the  lighter  and  worked  the  freer  for  it. 
Now,  if  I  did  not  hate  long  stories,  I  could  tell  you  what 
the  Gineral  said  to  me  next  day,  when  I  had  a  touch  of 
the  rheumatiz  from  lying  on  tne  field  without  a  blanket 
all  night.  You  must  know  it  was  raining  hard  just  then, 
and  we  were  pushing  on  like  all  natur  arter  the  reg'lars. 

Nathan.     What  did  the  General  say  to  you  ? 

Captain.  Not  a  syllable  says  he,  but  off  comes  his 
coat,  and  he  throws  it  over  my  shoulders.  "There,  Cap- 
tain," says  he,  "wear  that,  for  we  can't  spare  you  yet." 
Now  don't  that  beat  all  natur,  hey  ? 

Nathan.     So  you  wore  the  General's  coat,  did  you  ? 

Captain.  Lord  bless  your  simple  heart,  no.  I  didn't 
feel  sick  arter  that,  I  tell  you.  No,  Gineral,  says  I,  they 
can  spare  me  better  than  they  can  you  jest  now ;  and  so 
I'll  take  the  will  for  the  deed,  says  I. 

20 


230  ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES. 

Nathan.     You  will  never  forget  this  kindness,  Captain. 

Captain.  Not  I,  boy !  I  never  feel  a  twinge  of  the 
rheumatiz,  but  what  I  say,  God  bless  the  Gineral.  Now, 
you  see,  I  hate  long  stories,  or  I'd  tell  you  how  I  gin  it 
to  a  reg'lar  that  tried  to  shoot  the  Gineral  at  Monmouth. 
You  know  we  were  at  close  quarters,  and  the  Gineral 
was  right  between  the  two  fires. 

Nathan.     I  wonder  he  was  not  shot. 

Captain.  Lord  bless  your  ignorant  soul,  nobody  could 
kill  the  Gineral;  but,  you  see,  a  sneaking  reg'lar  didnM 
know  this,  and  so  he  leveled  his  musket  at  him;  and,  you 
see,  I  seed  what  he  was  arter,  and  I  gin  the  Gineral's 
horse  a  slap  on  the  haunches,  and  it  beats  all  natur  how 
he  sprung,  and  the  Gineral  all  the  while  as  straight  as  a 
gun-barrel. 

Nathan.     And  so  yovi  saved  the  General's  life. 

Captain.  Didn't  I  tell  you  nobody  could  kill  the 
Gineral ;  but,  you  see,  his  horse  was  in  the-  rake  of  my 
gun,  and  I  wanted  to  get  the  start  of  that  cowardly 
reg'lar. 

Nathan.     Did  you  hit  him? 

Captain.  Lord  bless  your  simple  soul,  does  the  thun- 
der hit  where  it  stikes !  though  the  fellow  made  me  blink 
a  little,  for  he  carried  away  part  of  this  ear.  See  there ! 
(dhovjing  his  ear^)  now,  don't  that  beat  all  natur  ? 

Nathan.  I  think  it  does.  But  tell  me  how  is  it  that 
you  took  all  these  things  so  calmly.  What  made  you  so 
contented  under  your  deprivations  and  hardships  ? 

Captain.  0,  bless  your  young  soul,  we  got  used  to  it. 
Besides,  you  see,  the  Gineral  never  flinched  nor  grumbled. 

Nathan.     Yes,  but  you  served  without  being  paid. 

Captain.  So  did  the  Gineral;  and  the  States,  you 
know,  were  poor  as  all  natur. 

Nathan.     But  you  had  families  to  support. 

Captain.  Aye,  aye;  but  the  Gineral  always  told  us  that 
God  and  our  country  would  take  care  of  them,  you  see. 
Now,  if  I  didn't  hate  long  stories,  I'd  tell  you  how  it 
turned  out  jest  as  he  said,  for  he  beat  all  natur  for  guess- 
ing right. 

Nathan.  Then  you  feel  happy,  and  satisfied  with  what 
you  have  done  for  your  country,  and  what  she  has  done 
for  you  ? 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  231 

Captain,  Why,  Lord  bless  you,  if  I  hadn't  left  ono 
of  my  legs  at  Yorktown,  I  wouldn't  have  touched  a  sti- 
ver of  the  States'  money ;  and,  as  it  is,  I  am  so  old  that 
I  shall  not  need  it  long.  You  must  know,  I  long  to  see 
the  GineraJ  again;  for,  if  he  don't  hate  long  stories  as  bad 
as  I  do,  I  shall  tell  him  all  about  America,  you  see ;  for 
it  beats  all  natur  how  things  have  changed  since  he 
left  us. 


DIALOGUE   LXIX. 

THE  FORTUNE-TELLER. 


Mrs.  Credulous.  Are  you  the  fortune-teller,  sir,  that 
knows  every  thing  ? 

Fortune- Teller.  I  sometimes  consult  futurity,  madam, 
but  I  make  no  pretensions  to  any  supernatural  knowl- 


edge. 


2frs.  C.  Aye,  so  you  say ;  but  every  body  else  says  you 
know  every  thing,  and  I  have  come  all  the  way  from 
Boston  to  consult  you,  for  you  must  know  I  have  met 
with  a  dreadful  loss. 

F.  T.     We  are  liable  to  losses  in  this  world,  madam. 

Mrs.  C.  Yes,  and  I  have  had  my  share  of  them, 
though  1  shall  only  be  fifty  come  Thanksgiving. 

F.  T.  You  must  have  learned  to  bear  misfortunes  with 
fortitude  by  this  time. 

Mrs.  G.  I  don't  know  how  that  is,  though  my  dear 
husband,  rest  his  soul,  used  to  say,  Molly,  you  are  as 
patient  as  Job,  though  you  never  had  any  children  to 
lose  as  he  did. 

F.  T.  Job  was  a  model  of  patience,  madam,  and  few 
could  lose  their  all  with  so  much  resignation. 

Mrs.  G.  Ah,  sir,  that  is  too  true  ;  for  even  the  compar- 
atively small  loss  I  have  suffered  overwhelms  me. 

F.  T.  The  loss  of  property,  madam,  comes  home  to 
the  bosom  of  the  best  of  us. 

Mrs.  C.  Yes,  sir ;  when  the  thing  lost  can  not  be  re- 
placed, it  is  doubly  distressing.  When  my  poor,  good 
man,  on  our  wedding-day,  gave  me  the  ring,  "  Keep  it, 
Molly,"  said  he,  '*  till  you  die,  for  my  sake."     And  now 


232  ENTERTAIXIKG  DIALOGUES. 

that  I  should  have  lost  it,  after  keeping  it  thirtj^ 
years,  and  locking  it  up  so  carefully  all  the  time,  as  I 
did 

F.  T.  We  can  not  be  too  careful  in  this  world,  mad- 
am ;  our  best  friends  often  deceive  us. 

Mrs.  C^  True,  sir,  true — but  who  would  have  thought 
that  the  child  I  took  as  it  were  out  of  the  street,  and 
brought  up  as  my  own,  could  have  been  guilty  of  such 
ingratitude  ?  She  never  would  have  touched  what  was 
not  her  own,  if  her  vagabond  lover  had  not  put  her  up 
to  it. 

F.  T.  Ah,  madam,  ingratitude  is  the  basest  of  all 
crimes. 

Mrs.  C.  Yes,  but  to  think  that  the  impudent  wench 
should  deny  she  took  it,  when  I  saw  it  in  the  possession 
of  that  wretch  myself. 

F.  T.  Impudence,  madam,  usually  accompanies  crime. 
But  my  time  is  precious,  and  the  star  that  rules  your  des- 
tiny will  set,  and  your  fate  be  involved  in  darkness,  un- 
less I  proceed  to  business  immediately.  The  stars  inform 
me,  madam,  that  you  are  a  widow. 

Mrs.  G.  La!  sir,  was  you  acquainted  with  my  de- 
ceased husband  ? 

F.  T.  No,  madam  ;  we  do  not  receive  our  knowledge 
by  such  communications.  Thy  name  is  Mary,  and  thy 
dwelling-place  is  Boston. 

Mrs.  G.  Some  spirit  must  have  told  you  this,  for  cer- 
tain. 

F.  T.  This  is  not  all,  madam.  You  were  married  at 
the  age  of  twenty  years,  and  were  the  sole  heir  of  your 
deceased  husband. 

Mrs.  G.     Mercy  on  me,  how  could  you  know  that  ? 

F.  T.  Madam,  I  can  not  help  knowing  what  I  do 
know.  I  must  therefore  inform  you  that  your  adopted 
daughter,  in  the  dead  of  night 

Afrs.  G.     No,  sir,  it  was  in  the  day-time. 

F.  T.  Do  not  interrupt  me,  madam.  In  the  dead  of 
night,  your  adopted  daughter — planned  the  robbery, 
which  deprived  you  of  your  wedding-ring. 

Mrs.  G.  No  earthly  being  could  have  revealed  this, 
for  I  never  let  my  right  hand  know  that  I  possessed  it, 
lest  some  evil  should  happen  to  it. 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  233 

F.  T.  Hear  me,  madam.  You  have  come  all  this  dis- 
tance to  consult  the  fates,  and  find  your  ring. 

Mrs.  C.     You  have  guessed  my  intention  exactly,  sir. 

F,  T.  Guessed  I  madam.  I  know  this  is  your  object; 
and  I  know,  moreover,  that  your  ungrateful  daughter  has 
incurred  your  displeasure  by  receiving  the  addresses  of 
a  worthless  man. 

Mrs.  C     Every  word  is  gospel  truth  I 

F.  T     I'his  man  has  persuaded  your  daughter 

Mrs.  C.  I  knew  he  did,  I  told  her  so.  But,  good  sir, 
can  you  tell  me  who  has  the  ring  ? 

F.  T.     This  young  man  has  it. 

Mrs.  C.     But  he  denies  it,  sir. 

F.  T.     No  matter,  madam,  he  has  it. 

Mrs.  0.     But  how  shall  I  obtain  it  again  ? 

F.  T.  The  law  points  out  the  way,  madam — it  is  my 
business  to  point  out  the  rogue,  you  must  catch  him. 

Mrs.  C.  You  are  right,  sir ;  and,  if  there  is  law  to  be 
had,  I  will  spend  every  cent  I  own,  but  I  will  have  it. 
I  knew  he  was  a  robber,  and  I  thank  you  for  the  inform 
ation.     {Going.) 

F.  T.  But  thanks,  madam,  will  not  pay  for  all  my 
nightly  vigils,  consultations,  and  calculations. 

Mrs.  C.  O,  right,  sir.  I  forgot  to  pay  you.  What 
am  I  indebted  to  you  ? 

F,  T.     Only  five  dollars,  madam. 

Mrs.  C.  There  it  is,  sir.  I  would  have  paid  twenty 
rather  than  not  to  have  found  the  ring. 

F.  T.  I  never  take  but  five,  madam.  Farewell,  mad- 
am, your  friend  is  at  the  door  with  your  chaise.  Fare 
well  I     {He  leaves  the  room.) 

{Enter  Friend.) 

Friend.  Well,  Mary,  what  does  the  fortune-teller 
say? 

3frs.  C.  0,  he  told  me  I  was  a  widow,  and  lived  in 
Boston,  and  had  an  adopted  daughter,  and — and 

Friend.     But  you  knew  all  this  before,  did  vou  not  ? 

Mrs.  C.  Yes  ;  but  how  should  he  know  it  r  He  told 
me  too  that  I  had  lost  a  ring 

Friend.     Did  he  tell  you  where  to  find  it  ? 
20* 


234  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Mrs.  C.  0  yes  I  he  says  that  fellow  has  it,  and  I  must 
go  to  law  and  get  it,  if  he  will  not  give  it  up.  What  do 
you  think  of  that  ? 

Friend,  It  is  precisely  what  any  fool  could  have  told 
you.  How  much  did  you  pay  for  this  precious  informa- 
tion ? 

Mrs.  C.     Only  five  dollars. 

Friend.     How  much  was  the  ring  worth  ? 

Mrs.  G.     Why,  two  dollars  at  least. 

Friend.  Then  you  have  paid  ten  dollars  for  a  chaise 
to  bring  you  here,  five  dollars  for  information  that  you 
had  already,  and  all  this  to  gain  possession  of  a  ring  not 
worth  one-quarter  of  the  expense ! 

Mrs.  C.  0,  the  rascal  I  how  he  has  cheated  me.  I 
will  go  to  the  world's  end  but  I  will  be  revenged. 

Friend.  You  better  go  home,  and  say  nothing  about 
it ;  for  every  effort  to  recover  your  money  will  only  ex- 
pose your  folly 


DIALOGUE   LXX. 

THE  ENGLISH  TRAVELER. 


Traveler.     Do  you  belong  to  this  house,  friend  ? 
Landlord.     No,  it  belongs  to  me,  I  guess. 

(  TTie  Tra/veler  takes  out  his  memorandum-boolc,  and  in  a  low  voice 
reads  what  he  writes.) 

Traveler.  Memorandum.  Yankee  landlords  do  not 
belong  to  their  houses.  {Ahud)  You  seem  young  for 
a  landlord  ;  may  I  ask  how  old  you  are  ? 

Landlord.     Yes,  if  you'd  like  to  know. 

Traveler.  Hem!  (Disconcerted)  Are  you  a  native, 
sir? 

Landlord.     No,  sir;  there  are  no  natives  hereabouts. 

Traveler.  Mem.  None  of  the  inhabitants  natives; 
ergo,  all  foreigners.  {Ahud.)  Where  were  you  born, 
sir? 

Landlord.     Do  you  know  where  Marblehead  is? 

Traveler.     Yes 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  286 

Landlord.     "Well,  I  was  not  born  there. 

Traveler.     Why  did  you  ask  the  question,  then? 

Landlord.     Because  my  daddy  was. 

Traveler.     But  you  were  born  somewhere. 

Landlord.  That's  true ;  but  as  father  moved  up  coun- 
try afore  the  townships  were  marked  out,  my  case  ia 
somewhat  like  the  Indian's,  who  was  born  at  Nantucket, 
Cape  Cod,  and  all  along  shore. 

Traveler.     Were  you  brought  up  in  this  place,  sir? 

Landlord.  No  ;  I  was  raised  in  Yarmount  till  mother 
died,  and  then,  as  father  was  good  for  nothing  after  that, 
I  pulled  up  stakes  and  went  to  sea  a  bit. 

Traveler.  {Mem.)  Yankees,  instead  of  putting  up 
stones,  pull  up  stakes  and  go  to  sea,  when  a  parent  dies. 
{Aloiid.)  You  did  not  follow  the  sea  long,  for  you  have 
not  the  air  of  a  mariner. 

Landlord.  Why,  you  see,  I  had  a  leetle  knack 
at  the  coopering  business;  and,  larning  that  them 
folks  that  carry  it  on  in  the  West  Indies  die  off  fast, 
I  calculated  I  should  stand  a  chance  to  make  something 
there. 

Traveler.     And  so  you  turned  sailor  to  get  there  ? 

Landlord.  Not  exactly ;  for  I  agreed  to  work  my  pas- 
sage by  cooking  for  the  crew  and  tending  the  dumb 
critters. 

Traveler.  Dumb  critters !  Of  what  was  your  lading 
composed  ? 

Landlord.  A  leetle  of  every  thing:  horses,  hogs, 
hoop-poles,  and  Hingham  boxes ;  boards,  ingyons,  soap, 
candles,  and  ile. 

Traveler.  {Mem.)  Soap,  candles,  and  iles  called  dumb 
critters  by  the  Yankees.  {Ahud.)  Did  you  arrive  there 
safely  ? 

Landlord.     No.     I  guess  we  didn't. 

Traveler.     Why  not? 

Landlord.  We  had  a  fair  wind,  and  sailed  a  pretty 
piece,  I  tell  you ;  but,  jest  afore  we  reached  the  eend  of 
our  vige,  some  pirates  overhauled  us,  and  stole  all  our 
molasses,  rum,  and  gingerbread. 

Traveler.     Is  that  all  they  did  to  you? 

Landlord.  No.  they  ordered  us  on  board  their  vessel 
and  promised  us  some  black-strap. 


236  ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES. 

Traveler.  {Mem.)  Pirates  catch  Yankees  with  a  black 
strap.     {Aloud.)     Did  you  accept  the  invitation  ? 

Landlord.  No,  I  guess  we  didn't.  And  so  they 
threatened  to  fire  into  us. 

Traveler.     What  did  your  captain  do  ? 

Landlord.  Fire  and  be  darned,  says  he;  but  you'd 
better  not  spill  the  deacon's  ile,  I  tell  you. 

Traveler.     And  so  you  ran  off,  did  you  ? 

Landlord.  No ;  we  sailed  off.  But  the  captain  said  it 
was  a  tarnal  shame  to  let  them  steal  our  necessaries,  and 
so  he  right  about  and  peppered  'em,  I  tell  you. 

Traveler.  {Mem.)  Yankees  use  pepper  for  shot  when 
they  fight  pirates.     {Aloud.)     Did  you  take  them  ? 

Landlord.     Yes ;  and  my  shear  has  built  this  house. 

Traveler.  {Mem.)  Yankees  build  houses  with  shears. 
{Aloud.)    You  no  doubt  cabbaged  a  little  from  the  pirates 

Landlord.  0  yes ;  it's  an  ill  wind  that  blows  nowhere, 
as  the  saying  is.  And  now  !nay  I  make  so  bold  as  to 
ask  whose  name  I  shall  enter  in  my  books  ? 

Traveler.     Mine. 

Landlord.  Hem !  If  it's  not  an  impertinent  question, 
may  I  ask  which  way  you  are  traveling? 

Traveler.     Home. 

Landlord.  Faith !  have  not  I  as  good  a  right  to  cate 
chise  you  as  you  had  to  catechise  me  ? 

Traveler.  Yes.  {Mem.)  Yankees  the  most  inquisitive 
people  in  the  world;  impertinent,  too,  and  unwilling  to 
communicate  information  to  travelers.  {Ahud.)  Well, 
sir,  if  you  have  accommodations  fit  for  a  gentleman,  I 
will  put  up  with  you. 

Landlord.  They  have  always  suited  gentlemen ;  but  I 
can't  say  how  you'll  like  'em. 

Traveler.  There  is  a  tolerable  prospect  from  this  win- 
dow.    What  hill  is  that,  yonder? 

Landlord.     Bunker  Hill,  sir. 

Traveler.  Pretty  hill.  If  I  had  my  instruments  here  I 
should  like  to  take  it. 

Landlord.  You  had  better  not  try.  It  requ'red  three 
thousand  instruments  to  take  it  in  '75. 

Traveler.  {Mem.)  A  common  Yankee  hill  can  not  bo 
drawn  without  three  thousand  instruments.  {Ahiid.) 
Faith,  landlord,  your  Yankee  draughtsmen  must  be  great 


ENTERTAINING  DI-iLOGUES.  U37 

bunglers.  But  come,  sir,  give  me  breakfast,  for  I  must 
be  going ;  there  is  nothing  else  in  this  vicinity  worthy 
ihe  notice  of  a  traveler. 


DIALOGUE    LXXl, 

Ollapod  and  Sir  Charles  Cropland. 

Ollapod.  Sir  Charles,  I  have  the  honor  to  be  your 
slave.  Hope  your  health  is  good.  Been  a  hard  winter 
here:  sore  throats  were  plent}^;  so  were  woodcocks. 
Flushed  four  couple  one  morning,  in  a  half-mile  walk 
from  our  town,  to  cure  Mrs.  Quarles  of  a  quinsy.  May 
coming  on  soon.  Sir  Charles.  Hope  you  come  to  sojourn. 
Shouldn't  be  always  on  the  wing ;  that's  being  too  flighty. 
Do  you  take,  good  sir,  do  you  take  ? 

Sir  Charles.  Oh,  yes,  I  take.  But,  b}^  the  cockade  in 
your  hat,  Ollapod,  you  have  added  lately,,  it  seems,  to 
your  avocation. 

Olla.  My  dear  Sir  Charles,  I  have  now  the  honor  to 
be  cornet  in  the  volunteer  association  corps  of  our  town. 
It  fell  out  unexpected — pop  on  a  sudden ;  like  the  going- 
off  of  a  field-piece,  or  an  alderman  in  an  apoplexy. 

Sir  G.     Explain. 

Olla.  Happening  to  be  at  home — rainy  day — no  going 
out  to  sport,  blister,  shoot,  nor  bleed — was  busy  behind 
the  counter.  You  know  my  shop,  Sir  Charles — Galen's 
head  over  the  door — new-gilt  him  last  week,  by  the  by — 
looks  as  fresh  as  a  pill. 

Sir  C.     Well,  no  more  on  that  head  now  :  proceed. 

Olla.  On  that  head!  That's  very  well — very  well, 
indeed  !  Thank  you,  good  sir — I  owe  you  one.  Church- 
warden Posh,  of  our  town,  being  ill  of  an  indigestion, 
from  eating  three  pounds  of  measly  pork  at  a  vestry- 
dinner,  I  was  making  up  a  cathartic  for  the  patient,  when 
who  should  strut  into  the  shop  but  Lieutenant  Grrains, 
the  brewer — sleek  as  a  dray-horse — in  a  smart  scarlet 
jacket,  tastily  turned  up  with  a  rhubarb-colored  lapel. 
I  confess  his  figure  struck  me.  I  looked  at  him  as  I  was 
thumping  the  mortar,  and  felt  instantly  inoculated  with 
a  military  ardor. 


238  ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES. 

Sir  C.  Inoculated  !  I  hope  jour  ardor  was  of  a  very 
favorable  sort. 

Olla.  Hal  ha!  That's  very  well — very  well,  indeed  I 
Thank  you,  good  sir — I  owe  you  one.  We  first  talked 
of  shooting ;  he  knew  my  celebrity  that  way,  Sir  Charles. 
I  told  him  the  day  before  I  had  killed  six  brace  of  birds ; 
I  thumped  on  at  the  mortar.  We  then  talked  of  physic. 
I  told  him  the  day  before  I  had  killed — lost,  I  mean — 
six  brace  of  patients :  I  thumped  on  at  the  mortar — 
eyeing  him  all  the  while  ;  for  he  looked  mighty  flashy, 
to  be  sure ;  and  I  felt  an  itching  to  belong  to  the  corps. 
The  medical  and  military  both  deal  in  death,  you  know ; 
so  'twas  natural.     Do  you  take,  good  sir — do  you  take  ? 

Sir  G.     Take  ?     Oh,  nobody  can  miss. 

Olla.  He  then  talked  of  the  corps  itself;  said  it  was 
sickly ;  and  if  a  professional  person  would  administer  to 
the  health  of  the  association — dose  the  men  and  drench 
the  horse — he  could,  perhaps,  procure  him  a  cornetcy. 

Sir  0.     Well,  you  jumped  at  the  offer ! 

Olla.  Jumped  I  I  jumped  over  the  counter — kicked 
down  churchwarden  Posh's  cathartic  into  the  pocket  of 
Lieutenant  Grains'  smart  scarlet  jacket,  tastily  turned  up 
with  a  rhubarb-colored  lapel;  embraced  him  and  his 
offer ;  and  I  am  now  Cornet  Ollapod,  apothecary,  at  the 
Galen's  Head,  of  the  association  corps  of  cavalry,  at  your 
service. 

Sir  0.  I  wish  you  joy  of  your  appointment!  You 
may  now  distill  water  for  the  shop  from  the  laurels  you 
gather  in  the  fields. 

Olla.  Water  for — oh !  laurel-water.  Come,  that's 
very  well — very  well,  indeed  !  Thank  you,  good  sir — I 
owe  you  one.  Why,  I  fancy  fame  will  follow,  when  the 
poison  of  a  small  mistake  I  made  has  ceased  to  operate. 

Sir  C.     A  mistake  ? 

Olla.  Having  to  attend  Lady  Kitty  Carbuncle  on  a 
grand  field-day,  clapped  a  pint-bottle  of  her  ladyship's 
diet-drink  into  one  of  my  holsters,  intending  to  proceed 
to  the  patient  after  the  exercise  was  over.  I  reached  the 
martial  ground,  and  jalaped — galloped,  I  mean — wheeled 
and  flourished  with  great  eclat;  but,  when  the  word 
"  Fire !  "  was  given,  meaning  to  pull  out  my  pistol,  in  a 
horrible  hurry  I  presented,  neck  foremost,  the  villainous 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  289 

diet-drink  of  Lady  Kitty  Carbuncle ;  and  the  medicine, 
being  unfortunately  fermented  by  the  jolting  of  my 
horse,  forced  out  the  cork  with  a  prodigious  pop,  full 
in  the  face  of  my  gallant  commander. 

Sir  C.  But,  in  the  midst  of  so  many  pursuit?!,  how 
proceeds  practice  among  the  ladies?  Any  new  face? 
since  I  left  the  country  ? 

Olla.  Nothing  worth  an  item ;  nothing  new  arrived 
in  our  town.  In  the  village,  to  be  sure,  hard  by,  Miss 
Emily  Worthington,  a  most  brilliant  beauty,  has  lately 
given  luster  to  the  estate  of  farmer  Harrowby. 

Sir  C.  My  dear  doctor,  the  lady  of  all  others  I  wish 
most  to  know.  Introduce  yourself  to  the  family,  and 
pave  the  way  for  me.  Come !  mount  your  horse — I'll 
explain  more  as  you  go  to  the  stable ;  but  I  am  in  a 
flame — in  a  fever,  till  I  see  you  off. 

Olla.  In  a  fever  I  I'll  send  you  physic  enough  to  fill 
a  baggage- wagon. 

Sir  C.  (Aside.)  So !  a  long  bill  as  the  price  of  his 
politeness. 

OUa.     You  needn't  bleed ;  but  you  must  have  medicine. 

Sir  C.  IT  I  must  have  medicine,  Ollapod,  I  fancy  I 
shall  bleed  pretty  freely. 

Olla.  Come,  that's  very  well — very  well,  indeed  I 
Thank  you,  good  sir — I  owe  you  one.  Before  dinner,  a 
strong  dose  of  coloquintida,  senna,  scammony,  and  gam- 
boge   

Sir  C.     Oh,  confound  scammony  and  gamboge  ! 

Olla.  At  night,  a  narcotic ;  next  day,  saline  draughts, 
camphorated  jalap,  and 

Sir  C.  Zounds !  only  go,  and  I'll  swallow  your  whole 
shop. 

Olla.  Galen  forbid  I  'Tis  enough  to  kill  every  cus- 
tomer I  have  in  the  parish.  Then  we'll  throw  m  the 
bark  ; — by  the  by,  talking  of  bark.  Sir  Charles,  that  Juno 
cf  vours  IS  the  prettiest  pointer 

Sir  C.     "Well,  well — she  is  yours. 

Olla.  My  dear  Sir  Charles  !  such  sport  next  shooting 
season  I     If  I  had  but  a  double-barreled  gun 

Sir  0.     Take  mine,  that  hangs  in  the  hall. 

Olla.  My  dear  Sir  Charles  !  Here's  morning's  work, 
senna  and  coloquintida.     (Aside.) 


240  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Sir  C.     Well,  begone,  then.     {Pushing  him) 
Olla.     I'm  off; — scammony  and  gamboge  I 
Sir  G.     Nay,  fly,  man  ! 

Olla.     I  do.  Sir  Charles.     A  double-barreled  gun — ^1 
fly — the  bark — I'm  going — Juno — a  narcotic  I 
Sir  a     Off  with  you  V 


DIALOGUE    LXXII. 

Old  Fickle  and  Tristram  Fickle. 

Old  Fickle.  What  reputation,  what  honor,  what  profit 
can  accrue  to  you  from  such  conduct  as  yours  ?  One 
moment  you  tell  me  you  are  going  to  become  the  greatest 
musician  in  the  world,  and  straight  you  fill  my  house 
with  fiddlers. 

Tristram.     I  am  clear  out  of  that  scrape  now,  sir. 

Old  F.  Then,  from  a  fiddler,  you  are  metamorphosed 
into  a  philosopher ;  and,  for  the  noise  of  drums,  trumpets, 
and  haut-boys,  you  substitute  a  vile  jargon,  more  unin- 
telligible than  was  ever  heard  at  the  Tower  of  Babel. 

Tris.     You  are  right,  sir.     I  have  found  out  that  phil 
osophy  is  folly ;  so  I  have  cut  the  philosophers  of  all 
sects,  from  Plato  and  Aristotle  down  to  the  puzzlers  of 
modern  date. 

Old  F.  How  much  had  I  to  pay  the  cooper  the  other 
day  for  barreling  you  up  in  a  large  tub,  when  you  re- 
solved to  live  like  Diogenes? 

Tris.  You  should  not  have  paid  him  any  thing,  sir ; 
for  the  tub  would  not  hold.  You  see  the  contents  are 
run  out. 

Old  F.  No  jesting,  sir ;  this  is  no  laughing  matter. 
Your  follies  have  tired  me  out.  I  verily  believe  you 
have  taken  the  whole  round  of  arts  and  sciences  in  a 
month,  and  have  been  of  fifty  different  minds  in  half  an 
hour. 

Tris.     And  by  that  shown  the  versatility  of  my  genius. 

Old  F.  Don't  tell  me  of  versatility,  sir.  Let  me  see 
a  little  steadiness.  You  have  never  yet  been  constant  to 
any  thing  but  extravagance. 

THs.     Yes,  sir,  one  thing  more. 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  241 

Old  F.     What  is  that,  sir  ? 

Tris.  Affection  for  you.  However  my  head  may  have 
wandered,  my  heart  has  always  been  constantly  attached 
to  the  kindest  of  parents  ;  and,  from  this  moment,  I  am 
resolved  to  lay  my  follies  aside,  and  pursue  thai  line  of 
c^mduct  which  will  be  most  pleasing  to  the  best  of  fathers 
and  of  friends. 

Old  F.  Well  said,  my  boy — well  said  I  You  make 
me  happy  indeed.  {Patting  him  on  the  shoulder.)  Now, 
then,  my  dear  Tristram,  let  me  know  what  you  really 
mean  to  do. 

Tris.     To  study  the  law 

Old  F.     The  law  1 

TVis.  I  am  most  resolutely  bent  on  following  that  pro- 
fession. 

Old  F    No! 

Tris.     Absolutely  and  irrevocably  fixed. 

Old  F.  Better  and  better.  I  am  overjoyed.  Why, 
His  the  very  thing  I  wished.  Now  I  am  happy.  ( Tris- 
tram makes  gestures,  as  if  speaking.)  See  how  his  mind 
is  engaged ! 

7Vis.     Gentlemen  of  the  jury 

Old  F.     Why,  Tristram 

Tris.     This  is  a  cause 

Old  F.  Oh,  my  dear  boy !  I  forgive  you  all  your 
tricks.  I  see  something  about  you  now  that  I  can  depend 
on.     {Tristram  continues  making  gestures.) 

Tris.     I  am  for  the  plaintiff  in  this  cause 

Old  F.  Bravo !  bravo  I — excellent  boy  I  I'll  go  and 
order  your  books  directly. 

Tris.     'Tis  done,  sir. 

OU  F.     What,  already  ? 

Tris.  I  ordered  twelve  square  feet  of  books  when  I 
first  thought  of  embracing  the  arduous  profession  of  the 
law. 

Old  F.     What !  do  you  mean  to  read  by  the  foot  ? 

Tris.  By  the  foot,  sir ;  that  is  the  only  way  to  become 
a  solid  lawyer. 

Old  F.     Twelve  square  feet  of  learning!     Well 

Tris.     I  have  likewise  sent  for  a  barber 

Old  F.  A  barber !  What !  is  he  to  teach  you  to 
shave  close  ? 

21 


242  ENTEliTAIN.NG  DIALOGUES. 

Tris.     He  is  to  sbave  one-half  of  my  head,  sir. 

CM  F.  You  will  excuse  me  if  I  can  not  perfectly 
understand  what  that  has  to  do  with  the  study  of  the 
law. 

Tris.  Did  you  never  hear  of  Demosthenes,  sir,  the 
Athenian  orator?  He  had  half  his  head  shaved,  and 
locked  himself  up  in  a  coal-cellar. 

Old  F.  Ah !  he  was  perfectly  right  to  lock  himself 
up,  after  having  undergone  such  an  operation  as  that. 
He  certainly  would  have  made  rather  an  odd  figure 
abroad. 

Tris.  I  think  I  see  him  now,  awakening  the  dormant 
patriotism  of  his  countrymen — lightning  in  his  eye  and 
thunder  in  his  voice,  he  pours  forth  a  torrent  of  elo- 
quence, resistless  in  its  force ;  the  throne  of  Philip  trem- 
bles while  he  speaks  ;  he  denounces,  and  indignation  fills 
the  bosom  of  his  hearers ;  he  exposes  the  impending 
danger,  and  every  one  sees  impending  ruin  ;  he  threatens 
the  tyrant — they  grasp  their  swords ;  he  calls  for  venge- 
ance— their  thirsty  weapons  glitter  in  the  air,  and 
thousands  reverberate  the  cry.  One  soul  animates  a 
nation,  and  that  soul  is  the  soul  of  the  orator. 

Old  F.  Oh !  what  a  figure  he'll  make  in  the  King's 
Bench  !  But,  come,  I  will  tell  you  now  what  my  plan  is, 
and  then  you  will  see  how  happily  this  determination  of 
yours  will  further  it.  You  have  (Tristram  makes  extrav- 
agant gestures,  as  if  speaking)  often  heard  me  speak  of  my 
friend  Briefwit,  the  barrister 


Tris.     Who  is  against  me  in  this  cause 
Old  F.     He  is  a  most  learned  lawyer 


Tris.     But,  as  I  have  justice  on  my  side 


Old  F.  Zounds !  he  doesn't  hear  a  word  I  say  I 
Why,  Tristram. 

Tris.  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir  ;  I  was  piosecuting  my 
studicifi. 

Old  F.     Now,  attend. 

Tris.     As  my  learned  friend  observes Go  on,  sir, 

[  am  all  attention. 

Old  F.     Well,  my  friend,  the  counselor 

2'ris.  Say  learned  friend,  if  you  please,  sir.  We  gen 
tlemen  of  the  law  always 

Old  F.     Well,  well — my  learned  fi  iend 


ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES.  248 

Tris.    A  blacl:  patch  ! 

Old  F.     Will  you  listen  and  be  silent  ? 

Tris.     I  am  as  mute  as  a  judge. 

Old  F.  My  friend,  I  say,  has  a  ward,  who  is  very 
handsome  and  who  has  a  very  handsome  fortune.  She 
would  make  you  a  charming  wife. 

Tris.     This  is  an  action 

Old  F.  Now,  I  have  hitherto  been  afraid  to  introduce 
you  to  my  friend,  the  barrister,  because  I  thought  your 
lightness  and  his  gravity 

Tris.     Might  be  plaintiff  and  defendant. 

Old  F.  But  now  you  are  grown  serious  and  steady, 
and  have  resolved  to  pursue  his  profession,  I  will  shortly 
bring  you  together :  you  will  obtain  his  good  opinion, 
and  all  the  rest  follows  of  course. 

Tris.     A  verdict  in  my  favor. 

Old  F.     You  marry,  and  sit  down  happy  for  life. 

Tri»     In  the  King's  Bench. 

Old  F.  Bravo !  Ha,  ha,  ha !  But  now  run  to  your 
study — run  to  your  study,  my  dear  Tristram,  and  I'll  go 
and  call  upon  the  counselor. 

Tris.     I  remove  by  habeas  corpus. 

Old  F.  Pray  have  the  goodness  to  make  haste,  then. 
(Hurrying  him  off.) 

Tris.     Gentlemen   of  the  jury,   this  is  a  cause 

{Exit) 

Ola  F.  The  inimitable  boy  I  I  am  now  the  happiest 
father  living.  What  genius  he  has !  He'll  be  lord 
chancellor  one  day  or  other,  I  dare  be  sworn.  I  am 
sure  he  has  talents  I  Oh,  how  I  long  to  see  him  at  the 
barl 


DIALOGUE   LXXIII. 

BENEVOLENCE. 


Sarah  Buntin,  with  a  hundle  of  clothes,  William,  with  a  hasket 
of  provisions^  going  to  visit  a  poor  family,  meet  Robert  Dawson, 
a  schoolmate. 

Bobert.     Good  morning,   Sarah  and  William;    where 
are  you  going  so  early  this  morning? 


244  ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES. 

Sarah.  We  are  going  over  to  Mrs.  Gently's,  to  carry 
some  clotlies  aud  provisions,  so  that  the  children  can  go 
to  school. 

Robert.  Are  they  so  poor  that  they  can  not  get  clothes 
to  wear  to  school  ? 

Sarah.  Yes;  they  are.  They  have  neither  clothes 
nor  food  to  make  them  comfortable. 

Rd)ert.  Why  don't  they  work  and  earn  money,  where- 
with to  buy  them  clothes  and  food? 

Sarah.  They  do,  Eobert ;  and  yet  they  can  not  earn 
enough,  I  fear,  to  keep  them  from  starving;  for  nobody 
has  now  any  work  to  give  them. 

Robert.     Have  they  no  father? 

Sarah.  No,  Robert,  they  have  no  father.  Their  fa- 
ther was  blind.  He  died  a  few  weeks  since,  after  being 
blind  many  years. 

Robert.     How  came  he  to  be  blind  ? 

Sarah.  It  is  a  sad  story.  While  he  was  at  work,  per 
fecting  an  important  invention,  which  required  great  use 
of  the  eyes,  things  began  to  look  dark  to  him ;  he  could 
not  see  the  fine  lines  clearly ;  every  day  it  grew  darker 
and  darker,  till  all  became  as  dark  as  night.  Then  the 
poor  man  sat  down,  with  his  wife  and  children,  and 
thought  over  what  he  should  do. 

Robert.     Well,  what  did  he  do  ? 

Sarah.  He  heard  of  a  great  doctor  in  Philadelphia, 
who  was  famous  for  curing  blindness ;  so  he  sold  his  lit- 
tle farm,  and  cows,  and  sheep,  and  took  the  money  to 
pay  his  expenses  in  moving  his  family  to  Philadelphia, 
and  to  pay  the  doctor. 

Robert.     And  did  the  doctor  help  him  ? 

Sarah.  No ;  after  trying  the  most  celebrated  physi- 
cians, and  spending  all  his  money,  he  found  himself  a 
beggar,  and  blind  as  ever. 

Robert.     How  sad !     What  did  he  then  do? 

Sarah.  He  looked  round  for  something  to  do  for  a 
living.  At  last  he  found  a  man  who  employed  him  to 
turn  a  grindstone,  where  they  made  cutlery. 

Robert.  And  could  he  earn  enough  by  turning  a 
grindstone  to  support  his  wife  and  children? 

Sarah.     No;  his  wife  took  in  washing;  and,  while  he 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  240 

had  employment,  they  were  able  to  earn  enough  to  live 
from  day  to  day. 

Robert     What  did  the  children  do  ? 

Sarah.  They  helped  their  mother,  out  of  school 
hours,  except  when  Nancy  was  with  her  father,  leading 
him  to  and  from  his  work.  Every  morning  she  would 
toke  him  by  the  hand,  and  lead  him  all  the  way  up  Wa- 
ter street  into  Vine  street,  where  the  manufactory  was, 
and  then  run  home  and  help  her  mother  till  school. 
Then  at  night  she  would  go  and  lead  her  father  home 
again. 

Robert.  Tell  me  more  about  the  blind  man.  What 
became  of  him  ? 

Sarah.  After  a  while  business  became  dull,  and  they 
did  not  want  him  at  the  factory  to  turn  the  grindstone ; 
so  he  and  Nancy  walked  all  over  the  city  to  find  work? 
But  nobody  wanted  him ;  there  was  nothing  which  he 
could  do.  So,  rather  than  starv^e,  he  sat  down  on  a  little 
stool,  by  the  side  of  an  old  graveyard  in  Mulberry 
street,  just  by  where  Benjamin  Franklin  was  buried,  and 
held  out  his  old  worn-out  cap  for  the  passers-by  to  throw 
in  their  pennies.  There  were  some  who  would  take  pity- 
on  the  poor  blind  man,  and  give  him  some  money.  This 
was  not  all.  His  wife,  by  her  hard  work  and  anxiety, 
became  sick  and  unable  to  take  in  washing  for  a  time. 
This  disheartened  the  poor  man  so  that  he  became  sick, 
and  died  of  a  broken  heart. 

Robert.  A  sad  story,  indeed.  What  became  of  the 
wife  and  the  children  ? 

Sarah.  They  became  perfectly  destitute,  and  had 
nothing  to  eat,  nor  hardly  any  clothes  to  wear.  One 
evening,  after  they  had  been  without  food  all  day,  Nancy 
thought  she  would  go  down  to  the  post-office,  where  she 
had  seen  other  children  sometimes  hold  out  their  hands 
for  gentlemen  to  give  them  pennies,  and  hold  out  her 
hand;  perhaps  some  one  would  give  her  soriething,  and 
then  she  could  buy  some  bread  for  her  mother  and  little 
sister,  to  keep  them  from  starving. 

Robert.     Well,  what  luck  did  she  have  ? 

Sarah.  She  went  and  stood  by  the  door  that  opens 
into  the  post-office,  and  tried  to  hold  out  her  hand  as  she 
liad  seen  other  little  beggars  do.     At  first  she  could 

21* 


246  ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES. 

hardly  get  it  out ;  she  seemed  to  feel  ashamed  to  do  it 
At  last  a  gentleman,  who  noticed  her,  observing  that  she 
was  not  one  of  the  common  beggars,  spoke  to  her  kindly, 
and  asked  her  who  she  was,  and  where  she  lived,  and  a 
great  many  other  questions,  which  she  answered  so  hon- 
estly and  frankly  that  he  gave  her  some  money,  and 
afterward  went  home  with  her  to  see  her  sick  mother 
and  sister. 

Robert.     He  was  a  kind  man.     How  did  he  find  them? 

Sarah.  He  found  them  in  the  fourth  story  of  a  poor 
old  building  in  Water  street,  where  they  lived  in  a  little 
attic-room,  with  only  one  bed,  one  table,  a  chair,  and  a 
stool  for  their  furniture,  and  nothing  to  eat.  He  then 
gave  them  some  money,  and  came  home  to  our  house, 
where  he  boards,  and  told  us  all  he  had  seen.  He  then 
proposed  that  we  should  make  a  collection  of  clothes  and 
provisions  for  the  family,  and  send  them.  So  this  morn- 
ing, mother  and  I  picked  up  all  our  old  dresses,  and 
made  up  a  basket  of  provisions,  with  some  money  from 
the  boarders,  and  Billy  and  I  are  going  to  carry  them  to 
the  poor  family. 

Roben±  You  are  very  kind,  Sarah.  I  am  very  sorry 
for  them.  Your  story  and  generosity  have  interested  me 
in  doing  something  for  them  myself  Here  is  a  sixpence 
I  was  going  to  spend  for  marbles.  (Gives  it  to  Sarah.)  I 
will  give  them  that ;  and  I  should  like  to  go  and  see 
them  with  you.     Can  I  go? 

Sarah.  Certainly ;  with  all  my  heart.  It  will  do  you 
good  to  see  those  kind  little  girls  and  patient  mother, 
who  have  suffered  so  much  hunger  and  cold  rather  than 
beg.  My  mother  tells  me  "it  is  better  to  give  than  to 
receive;"  that  all  our  little  acts  of  kindness  to  the  poor 
are  treasures  laid  up  in  heaven,  where  neither  moth  nor 
rust  will  corrupt,  nor  thieves  break  through  and  steal. 

Robert.  I  have  heard  that  before ;  but  I  never  under- 
stood it  as  I  do  now.  I  will  try  and  lay  up  some  treas- 
ure there,  too ;  so  let  us  be  going. 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  247 

DIALOGUE    LXXIV. 

WAR. 

Uncle  James,  William,  John,  arid  Lucy 

William.  Uncle  James,  was  it  really  a  glory  for  our 
forefathers  to  kill  the  poor  Indians  ? 

John.  And  to  come  over  on  purpose  to  rob  them,  and 
to  bum  their  villages? 

Uncle  James.  Well,  Willie,  I  do  not  think  so;  but 
there  are  hundreds  of  people  even  now  who  call  such 
actions  "glory." 

William.  But  if  a  boy  in  our  school  knew  more  about 
fighting  than  any  of  the  others,  and  then  would  always 
be  "knocking  them  about  "  because  they  had  not  learned 
how  to  fight,  we  should  call  him  a  coward. 

John.  And  if  he  fought  the  others  on  purpose  to  take 
away  all  that  he  had? 

William.  Then  we  should  call  him  a  sneak — not  a 
conqueror. 

John.  Or,  Uncle  James,  you  know  that  we  have, 
each  of  us,  a  little  garden.  Now,  if  Willie,  because  he 
is  the  strongest,  were  to  kill  Lucy  and  me,  on  purpose  to 
take  our  gardens  away  from  us  ? 

William.     0,  how  can  you  talk  so,  John  I 

John.     But  I  only  say  if  you  should  do  so. 

William.     Well,  I  should  be  hanged,  of  course. 

John.  Then  why  do  not  the  government  hang  those 
armies  which  go  to  kill  other  nations  on  purpose  to  take 
away  their  land  ? 

William.  Why,  you  forget.  The  government  send 
their  soldiers,  so  the  people  of  the  government  would 
have  to  punish  themselves. 

Lnicy.  I  think  that  nations  kill  each  other  because 
they  are  heathens ;  only  such  nations  as  have  not  learned 
about  God  and  Jesus  Christ  would  do  such  things. 

William.  But  the  English  and  Americans  are  not 
heathens,  they  are  Christians,  and  have  murdered  natives 
in  America,  Africa,  Australia,  and  India,  on  purpose  to 
get  their  lands. 

Uncle  James.     That  is  true,  Willie;  but  we  must  not 


248  ENTEKTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

say  they  murdered  them.  People  call  this  "  murder  — 
when  one  man  goes  up  to  another  and  kills  him;  but, 
when  one  nation  of  men  march  to  another  to  kill  them, 
that  is  called  "war." 

Lucy.  And  the  men  are  not  called  "murderers '' — they 
are  called  "  warriors." 

John.  How  curious,  that  the  men  should  be  called  by 
a  different  name,  because  they  all  happen  to  be  togeth- 
er— by  the  side  of  each  other — when  they  are  killing  I 
Suppose  a  man  was  sixty  yards  away  from  the  others, 
and  was  to  kill  one  of  his  enemies,  would  he  be  a  war- 
rior or  a  murderer  ? 

William.  That  would  depend  upon  which  name  he 
liked  best.  You  may  call  the  action  what  you  please ; 
but  I  think  that  the  thing  which  is  done — I  mean  the 
killing — is  just  the  same.  There  are  not  two  killings — 
and  there  is  no  difference  in  the  thing  itself  because  it  is 
done  by  several  people. 

John.  So  I  think!  To  kill  a  man  means  "to  make 
him  die;"  and,  unless  there  is  any  other  killing,  it  is  the 
same,  whether  it  be  done  by  a  man  or  a  nation. 

TJncle  James.  Well,  John,  that  is  quite  true ;  it  is 
just  what  any  boy's  common  sense  will  teach  him. 
Christian  people  are  now  beginning  to  believe  that  it  is 
wrong  to  make  wars,  or  to  call  them  "glory." 

Lucy.  Are  they  only  beginning  to  believe.  Uncle 
James  ?     How  strange ! 

TJnch  James.  But  there  are  some  who  say  that,  as 
there  are  always  wicked  people  in  the  world,  who  will 
rob  and  steal  if  you  let  them,  we  ought  to  have  soldiers 
to  defend  us. 

William.  But,  Uncle  James,  could  not  you  teach 
these  people  better?  couldn't  you  prevent  them  from 
fighting  or  stealing  by  being  kind  to  them  ? 

TJncie  James.  There  are  many  people  now,  Willie, 
who  think  that  we  could.  You  know  there  has  been 
only  one  Teacher  in  the  world  whose  words  we  can  be 
sure  are  quite  right. 

Lauiy.     Yes ;  that  is  Jesus  Christ. 

ZTncle  James.  Jesus  Christ,  then,  wrote  a  law  to  show 
us  how  to  live  without  fighting.  It  is  written — "  Whai- 
Kocver  ye  would  that  men  should  do  unto  you^  do  ye  even  so 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  249 

unto  themy  But  that  is  a  very  hard  law  to  keep.  There 
is  no  doubt  at  all-  that  men  would  leave  off  lighting  if 
tliey  all  knew  the  law,  and  had  hearts  good  enough  to 
keep  it. 

John.  Then,  of  course,  we  oughC  to  teach  that  law  to 
one  another  as  fast  as  we  can. 

Lucy.  And  so  ought  all  the  English  and  American 
people,  because  it  is  Christ's  law,  and  the  English  and 
Americans  are  Christians. 

Uncle  James.  This  is  one  of  Jesus  Christ's  great  laws, 
and  no  one  can  teach  it  until  he  has  learned  it.  God  will 
teach  all  of  you,  if  you  ask  him. 

Johji.  Then,  I  am  sure,  I  will  ask  him.  I  believe  it 
is  wicked  to  fight ;  I  think  there  ought  not  to  be  any 
soldiers  made  on  purpose.     I  will  never  be  a  soldier  I 

William.     Nor  I ! 

Lucy.  Nor  I,  to  fight  with  sword  and  spear  in  the 
armies  that  kill ;  for  woman's  mission  is  not  to  fight  with 
such  weapons.  But  I  will  be  a  soldier  in  that  blessed 
army,  whose  banner  is  righteousness  and  truth,  and 
whose  leader  is  called  the  Captain  of  our  Salvation. 

Uncle  James.  Yes,  Lucy,  that  is  your  mission ;  and  it 
should  be  the  mission  of  us  all.  There  is  nothing  strong- 
er than  truth.  All  the  armies  in  the  world,  arrayed 
against  it,  can  not  overcome  it.  Let  us  each,  then,  em- 
balm this  motto  on  our  hearts,  "  7'ruth  is  mighty,  and  will 
prevaiV 


DIALOGUE    LXXV. 

TRUE  CHARrrv. 

Benjamin,  John,  and  Mother. 

{Enter  Ben,  with  a  loaf  of  bread.) 

Benjamin.  Here's  the  bread,  mother.  Now  you  must 
eat  as  much  as  you  want,  for  you  see  I  can  earn  money 
enough  to  buy  more,  when  we've  eaten  up  this. 

John.     And  you'll  buy  me  a  cap,  won't  you,  Ben  ? 

Benjamin.  O,  yes,  Johnny :  you  shall  have  a  cap,  if 
we  have  money  enough. 


250  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Motile  .  {Beginning  to  cut  the  bread.)  This  bread  is 
hard:  the  knife  won't  go  through  it. 

Benjamin.  O,  mother,  it's  only  because  you  are  so 
weak,  and  you  know  you  hurt  your  arm  when  our  house 
was  burned.  Give  me  the  knife,  mother,  and  I  guess  I'll 
make  it  go  through  about  the  quickest.  {Takes  the  knife, 
and  with  great  force  cuts  the  bread,  upon  which  several 
ineces  of  money  fall  to  the  floor.) 

Mother.  What  are  you  doing,  ray  child?  What's  all 
that?     Where  has  all  this  money  come  from? 

Benjamin.  From  the  bread,  mother ;  from  the  bread, 
as  soon  as  I  got  the  knife  into  it.  Hurrah  I  what  a  loaf 
of  bread!  It  is  a  loaf  of  money.  Now,  says  I,  we've 
got  money  enough  to  last  us  all  our  lives.  {Begins  to 
pick  up  the  money.) 

Mother.  Stop,  Ben,  stop!  This  is  not  your  mone}^, 
nor  mine :  you  must  not  touch  it. 

Benjamin.  But,  mother,  I  bought  the  bread,  and  paid 
for  it  with  the  money  I  earned  for  cleaning  the  knives. 

Mother.  I  know  that,  my  dear  boy;  but  the  person 
who  sold  3^ou  this  loaf  did  not  mean  to  give  you  this 
money.  There  must  be  some  mistake.  You  must  take 
it  back,  my  boy. 

Benjamin.     {Sorrov fully.)     What,  all  of  it,  mother? 

Mother.     Yes,  every  piece  ;  it  isn't  honestly  ours. 

Benjamin.  O,  dear,  how  I  wish  it  was!  Well,  the 
baker  must  give  me  another  real  good  one;  and  I'll  go 
and. get  it  in  about  no  time.     {Exit  Ben) 

Mother.     We'd  better  starve  than  be  dishonest. 

John.  Why  did  you  send  that  money  back  to  the 
baker,  mother? 

Mother.     Because  it  was  not  mine  to  keep. 

John.     Then  haven't  we  any  money  to  buy  bread  with? 

Mother.  Yes,  we  have  some  money,  and  Ben  will  soon 
be  back,  and  bring  some  bread  that  we  can  eat. 

John.  I'm  glad,  'cause  I'm  so  hungry ;  I  want  some 
bread  to  eat.  Mother,  couldn't  I  get  some  money,  like 
Ben  ?  I  can  clean  knives,  too ;  and  then  you  wouldn't 
cry  so. 

{Enter  Ben.) 

Benjamin.     Hurrah  I  mother,  the  bread  and  the  money 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  251 

is  all  ours,  every  bit  of  it ;  the  baker  said  so ;  and  here 
it  is,  and  another  nice  loaf.  He  told  me  that  somebody 
came  there  tliis  morning,  and  gave  him  the  money,  and 
told  him  to  put  it  into  the  bread,  and  if  I  came  to  bv.y  a 
loaf  to  give  me  this  very  one.  So  he  gave  me  back  the 
money  and  a  good  loaf  beside. 

Mother.  I  don't  know  what  to  do,  my  boy.  What 
can  this  mean  ? 

Benjamin.  It  means,  mother,  that  you  shall  have  a 
good  loaf  of  bread,  and  enough  money  to  buy  more  with  : 
it  certainly  is  yours,  and  you  must  keep  it.  Whom  do 
you  suppose  it  was,  mother? 

Mother.  Well,  my  child,  I  suppose  you  are  right,  and 
I  must  keep  the  money.  But  1  know  not  who  has  done 
this. 

Benjamin.  O,  mother,  I  know  now — I  guess  I  do.  It 
was  the  very  gentleman  who  gave  me  the  knives  to  scour. 

Mother.  It  was  somebody  that  was  very  good,  and 
you  shall  now  eat  as  much  as  you  want.  Perhaps  we 
may  iind  out  who  has  been  so  kind  to  us ;  and  we  can 
love  them,  even  if  we  don't. 

John.  {Thoughtfully.)  Haven't  I  heard  you  read, 
somewhere,  mother,  "It  is  more  blessed  to  give  than  to 
receive  ?  " 

Mother.  Yes,  John,  I  have ;  and  our  £#ood  friend  has 
found  that  out,  and  learned  also  to  give  his  alms  in  se- 
cret, and  he  will  have  his  reward ;  for  God,  who  hears 
the  ravens  when  they  cry,  has  also  heard  the  cry  of  the 
widow  and  the  fatherless,  and  will  grant,  to  him  who 
gave  in  secret  to  their  necessities,  an  open  reward. 


DIALOGUE    LXXVI. 

THE  SENSITIVE  AUTHOR. 

Enter  Servant  to  Dangle  and  Sneer. 

iSenjant.     Sir  Fretful  Plagiary,  sir. 

Dangle.  Beg  him  to  walk  up.  {Exit  servant)  Now, 
Mrs.  Dangle,  Sir  Fretful  Plagiary  is  an  author  to  your 
own  taste. 


252  ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES. 

Mis.  D.  1  confess  he  is  a  favorite  of  mine  because 
every  body  else  abuses  him. 

Sneer.  Yery  much  to  the  credit  of  your  char,ty.  mad- 
am, if  not  of  your  judgment. 

Dan.  But,  egad !  he  allows  no  merit  to  any  author 
but  himself;  that's  the  truth  on't — though  he's  my 
friend. 

Sneer.  Never.  He  is  as  envious  as  an  old  maid  verg- 
ing on  the  desperation  of  six-and-thirty ;  and  then  the 
insidious  humility  with  which  he  seduces  you  to  give  a 
free  opinion  on  any  of  his  works  can  be  exceeded  only 
by  the  petulant  arrogance  with  which  he  is  sure  to  reject 
your  observations. 

Dan.     Yery  true,  egad !  though  he's  my  friend. 

Sneer.  Then  his  affected  contempt  of  all  newspaper 
strictures ;  though,  at  the  same  time,  he  is  the  sorest  man 
alive,  and  shrinks  like  scorched  parchment  from  the  fiery 
ordeal  of  true  criticism :  yet  is  he  so  covetous  of  popu- 
larity that  he  had  rather  be  abused  than  not  mentioned 
at  all. 

Dan.     There's  no  denying  it ;  though  he's  my  friend. 

Sneer.  You  have  read  the  tragedy  he  has  just  finished, 
haven't  you  ? 

Dan.     O  yes ;  he  sent  it  to  me  yesterday. 

Sne^r.     Well,  and  you  think  it  execrable,  don't  you  ? 

Dan.  Why,  between  ourselves,  egad !  I  must  own — 
though  he's  my  friend — that  it  is  one  of  the  most — he's 
here ! — {Aside) — finished  and  most  admirable  perform  — 

Sir  F.  (Wifwut)  Mr.  Sneer  with  him,  did  you 
say? 

{Enter  Sir  Fretful  Plagiary.) 

Dan.  Ah,  my  dear  friend !  Egad !  we  were  just 
speaking  of  your  tragedy.  Admirable,  Sir  Fretful,  ad- 
mirable ! 

Sneer.  You  never  did  any  thing  beyond  it.  Sir  Fret- 
ful ;  never  in  your  life. 

Sir  F.  You  make  me  extremely  happy ;  for,  without 
a  compliment,  my  dear  Sneer,  there  isn't  a  man  in  the 
world  whose  judgment  I  value  as  I  do  yours,  and  Mr 
Dangle  s. 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  263 

Jfrs.  D.  They  are  only  laughing  at  you,  Sir  Fretful ; 
for  it  was  but  just  now  that 

Dan.  Mrs.  Dangle ! — Ah !  Sir  Fretful,  you  know  Mrs. 
Dangle.  My  friend  Sneer  was  rallying  just  now.  He 
knows  how  she  admires  you,  and 

Sir  F.     0,  Lord  1  I  am  sure  Mr.  Sneer  has  more  taste 

and  sincerity  than   to {Aside.)      A  double-faced 

fellow  I 

Dan.  Yes,  yes — Sneer  will  jest;  but  a  better-hu- 
mored   

Sir  F.     0  !  I  know. 

Dan.  He  has  a  ready  turn  for  ridicule ;  his  wit  costs 
him  nothing. 

Sir  F.  {Aside.)  No,  egad  I  or  I  should  wonder  how 
he  came  by  it. 

Mrs.  D.  Because  his  jest  is  always  at  the  expense  of 
his  friend. 

Dan.  But,  Sir  Fretful,  have  you  sent  your  play  to  the 
managers  yet?  or  can  I  be  of  any  service  to  you  ? 

Sir  F.  No,  no,  I  thank  you  ;  I  believe  the  piece  had 
sufficient  recommendation  with  it.  I  thank  you,  though. 
I  sent  it  to  the  manager  of  Covent  Garden  theater  this 
morning. 

Sneer.  I  should  have  thought,  now,  that  it  might 
have  been  cast  (as  the  actors  call  it,)  better  at  Drury 
Lane. 

Sir  F.  0,  lud  !  no — never  send  a  play  there  while  I 
live.     Hark  ye !     (  Whispers  to  Sneer.) 

Sneer.      Writes  himself/     I  know  he  does. 

Sir  F.  I  say  nothing — I  take  away  from  no  man's 
merit — am  hurt  at  no  man's  good  fortune.  I  say  noth- 
ing ;  but  this  I  will  say — through  all  my  knowledge  of 
life,  I  have  observed  that  there  is  not  a  passion  so 
strongly  rooted  in  the  human  heart  as  envy ! 

Sneer.  I  believe  you  have  reason  for  what  you  say, 
indeed. 

Sir  F.  Besides,  I  can  tell  you,  it  is  not  always  so  safe 
to  leave  a  play  in  the  hands  of  those  who  write  them- 
selves. 

Sneer.  What !  they  may  steal  from  them  ?  eh,  my 
dear  Plagiary  ? 

Sir  F.     Steal !  to  be  sure  they  may  ;  and,  egad  I  serve 

22 


254  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

your  best  thoughts  as  gipsies  do  stolen  children—  dis- 
figure them  to  make  'em  pass  for  their  own. 

Silver.  But  your  present  work  is  a  sacrifice  to  Mel- 
pomene ;  and  he,  you  know,  never 

Sir  F.  That's  no  security.  A  dexterous  plagiarist  may 
do  any  thing.  Why,  sir,  for  aught  I  know,  he  miglit 
take  out  some  of  the  best  things  in  my  tragedy,  and  pui 
them  into  his  own  comedy. 

Sneer.     That  might  be  done,  I  dare  be  sworn. 

Sir  F.  And  then,  if  such  a  person  gives  you  the  least 
hint  or  assistance,  he  is  devilish  apt  to  take  the  merit  of 
the  whole. 

Dan.     If  it  succeeds. 

Sir  F.  Aye !  But  with  regard  to  this  piece,  I  think 
I  can  hit  that  gentleman ;  for  I  can  safely  swear  he  never 
read  it. 

Sneer.     I'll  tell  you  how  you  may  hurt  him  more. 

Sir  F.     How? 

Sneer.     Swear  he  wrote  it. 

Sir  F.  Plague  on't  now,  Sneer ;  I  shall  take  it  ill.  i 
believe  you  want  to  take  away  my  character  as  an 
author ! 

Sneer.  Then  I  am  sure  you  ought  to  be  very  much 
obliged  to  me. 

SirF.     Eh?  sir! 

Dan,     O I  you  know  he  never  means  what  he  says 

Sir  F.     Sincerely,  then,  you  do  like  the  piece  ? 

Sneer.     Wonderfully ! 

Sir  F.  But,  come  now,  there  must  be  something  that 
you  think  might  be  mended,  eh  ?  Mr.  Dangle,  has  noth- 
ing struck  you  ? 

Dan.  Why,  faith,  it  is  but  an  ungracious  thing,  for 
the  most  part,  to 

Sir  F.  With  most  authors  it  is  just  so,  indeed ;  they 
are  in  general  strangely  tenacious ;  but,  for  my  part,  I  am 
never  so  well  pleased  as  when  a  judicious  critic  points 
out  any  defect  to  me ;  for  what  is  the  purpose  of  show- 
ing a  work  to  a  friend,  if  you  don't  mean  to  profit  by  his 
opinion  ? 

Sneer.  Very  true.  Why  then,  though  I  seriously 
admire  the  piece,  upon  the  whole,  yet  there  is  one  small 
objection,  which,  if  you'll  give  me  leave,  I'll  mention. 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  266 

Sir  F.     Sir,  you  can^t  oblige  me  more 

Sfmeer.     I  think  it  wants  incident. 

Sir  F.  Good  God  I  you  surprise  me !  Wants  inci 
dent? 

Sneer,  Yes ;  I  own  I  think  the  incidents  are  too 
few. 

Sir  F.  Believe  me,  Mr.  Sneer,  there  is  no  person  for 
whose  judgment  I  have  a  more  implicit  deference;  but 
I  protest  to  you,  Mr.  Sneer,  I  am  only  apprehensive  that 
the  incidents  are  too  crowded.  My  dear  Dangle,  how 
does  it  strike  you  ? 

Dan.  Really,  I  can't  agree  with  my  friend  Sneer.  I 
think  the  plot  quite  sufficient ;  and  the  four  first  acts  by 
many  degrees  the  best  I  ever  read  or  saw  in  my  life.  If 
I  might  venture  to  suggest  any  thing,  it  is  that  the  inter- 
*^st  rather  falls  off  in  the  fifth. 

Sir  F.     Rises,  I  believe  you  mean,  sir. 

Dan.     No ;  I  don't,  upon  my  word. 

Sir  F.  Yes,  yes,  you  do,  upon  my  soul ;  it  certainly 
don't  fall  off,  I  assure  you ;  no,  no,  it  don't  fall  off. 

Dan.  Now,  Mrs.  Dangle,  didn't  you  say  it  struck  you 
in  the  same  light  ? 

Mrs.  D.  No,  indeed,  I  did  not.  I  did  not  see  a  fault 
in  any  part  of  the  play,  from  the  beginning  to  the 
end. 

Sir  F.  Upon  my  soul,  the  women  are  the  best  judges, 
after  all ! 

Mrs.  D.  Or,  if  I  made  any  objection,  I  am  sure  it  was 
to  nothing  in  the  piece ;  but  that  I  was  afraid  it  was,  on 
the  whole,  a  little  too  long. 

Sir  F.  Pray,  madam,  do  you  speak  as  to  duration  of 
time ;  or  do  you  mean  that  the  story  is  tediously  spun 
out? 

Mrs.  D.  O  lud !  no.  I  speak  only  with  reference  to 
the  usual  length  of  acting  plays. 

Sir  F.  Then  I  am  very  happy — very  happy,  indeed  ; 
because  the  play  is  a  short  play — a  remarkably  short 
play.  I  should  not  venture  to  differ  with  a  ladj'  on  a 
point  of  taste ;  but  on  these  occasions  the  watch,  you 
know,  is  the  critic. 

Mrs.  D.  Then,  I  suppose,  it  must  have  been  Mr. 
Dangle's  drawlirg  manner  of  reading  it  to  me. 


256  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Sir  F.  0 !  if  Mr.  Dangle  read  it,  that's  quite  another 
affair ;  but  I  assure  you,  Mrs.  Dangle,  the  first  evening 
you  can  spare  me  three  hours  and  a  half,  I'll  undertake 
u)  read  you  the  whole  from  beginning  to  end,  with  the 

Erologue  and  epilogue,  and  allow  time  for  the  music 
etween  the  acts. 

Mrs.  D.     I  hope  to  see  it  on  the  stage  next.     (Exit.) 

Dan.  Well,  Sir  Fretful,  I  wish  you  may  be  able  to 
get  rid  as  easily  of  the  newspaper  criticisms  as  you  do  of 
ours. 

Sir  F.  The  newspapers !  Sir,  they  are  the  most  vil- 
lainous, licentious,  abominable,  infernal — not  that  I 
ever  read  them;  no,  I  make  it  a  rule  never  to  loot 
into  a  newspaper. 

Dan.  You  are  quite  right ;  for  it  certainly  must  hurt 
an  author  of  delicate  feelings  to  see  the  liberties  they 
take. 

Sir  F.  No ;  quite  the  contrary ;  their  abuse  is,  in  fact, 
the  best  panegyric.  I  like  it  of  all  things.  An  author's 
reputation  i?  only  in  danger  from  their  support. 

Sneer.  Why,  that's  true;  and  that  attack,  now,  on 
you  the  other  day 

Sir  F.     What?  where? 

Dan.  Aye,  you  mean  in  a  paper  of  Thursday ;  it  was 
completely  ill-natured,  to  be  sure. 

Sir  F.  0  I  so  much  the  better — ha  !  ha  I  ha  I  I 
wouldn't  have  it  otherwise. 

Dan.     Certainly,  it  is  only  to  be  laughed  at ;  for 

Sir  F.  You  don't  happen  to  recollect  what  the  fellow 
said,  do  you  ? 

Sneer.  Pray,  Dangle;  Sir  Fretful  seems  a  little 
anxious 

Sir  F.  O  lud,  no !  Anxious !  not  I,  not  the  least — I — 
but  one  may  as  well  hear,  you  know. 

Dan.  Sneer,  do  you  recollect  ?  {Aside.)  Make  out 
something. 

Sneer.  I  will.  (To  Dangle)  Yes,  yes,  I  remember 
perfectly. 

Sir  F.  Well,  and  pray  now — not  that  it  signifies — 
what  might  the  gentleman  say  ? 

Sneer.  Why,  he  roundly  asserts  that  you  have  not 
the   slightest    invention    or   original    genius    whatever, 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES,  257 

though  you  are  the  greatest  traducer  of  all  other  authors 
living. 

Sir  F.     Ha !  ha !  lia ! — very  good. 

Sneer.  That,  as  to  comedy,  you  have  not  one  idea  of 
your  own,  he  believes,  even  in  your  eommonplace-book, 
where  stray  jokes  and  pilfered  witticisms  are  kept  with 
as  much  method  as  the  ledger  of  the  lost  and  stolen 
office. 

Sir  F.     Ha !  ha  I  ha ! — very  pleasant. 

Sneer.  Nay,  that  you  are  so  unlucky  as  not  to  have 
the  skill  even  to  steal  with  taste ;  but  that  you  glean 
from  the  refuse  of  obscure  volumes,  where  more  judicious 
plagiarists  have  been  before  you ;  so  that  the  body  of 
your  work  is  a  composition  of  dregs  and  sediments,  like 
a  bad  tavern's  worst  wine. 

Sir  F.     Hal  ha!  ha! 

Sneer.  In  your  more  serious  efforts,  he  says,  your 
bombast  would  be  less  intolerable  if  the  thoughts  were 
ever  suited  to  the  expressions ;  but  the  homeliness  of  the 
sentiment  stares  through  the  fantastic  incumbrance  of  its 
fine  language,  like  a  clown  in  one  of  the  new  uniforms. 

SvrF,     Hal  ha!  hal 

Sneer.  That  your  occasional  tropes  and  flowers  suit 
the  general  coarseness  of  your  style  as  tambour  sprigs 
would  a  ground  of  linsey-woolsey;  while  your  imitations 
of  Shakspeare  resemble  the  mimicry  of  Falstaff's  page, 
and  are  about  as  near  the  standard  of  the  original. 

SirF.     Ha! 

Sneer.  In  short,  that  even  the  finest  passages  you 
steal  are  of  no  service  to  you — for  the  poverty  of  your 
own  language  prevents  their  assimilating,  so  that  they 
lie  on  the  surface  like  lumps  of  marl  on  a  barren 
moor,  encumbering  what  it  is  not  in  their  power  to 
fertilize. 

Sir  F.  {After  great  agitation.)  Now,  another  person 
would  be  vexed  at  this. 

Sneer.  Oh !  but  I  wouldn't  have  told  you,  only  to 
divert  you. 

Sir  F.  I  know  it.  I  am  diverted — ha  I  ha  ha ! — not 
the  least  invention  ! — ha !  ha !  ha  I — very  good,  very 
good! 

Sneer.    Yes ;  no  genius ! — ^ha  I  ha  1  ha  I 
22* 


258  ENTERTAINING  DIALOa&ES. 

Dan.  A  severe  rogue — ha!  ha!  ha! — ^but  you  are 
quite  right,  Sir  Fretful,  never  to  read  such  nonsense. 

Sir  F.  To  be  sure  ;  for,  if  there  is  any  thing  to  one's 
praise,  it  is  a  foolish  vanity  to  be  gratified  at  it ;  and,  if 
it  is  abuse,  why  one  is  always  sure  to  hear  of  it  from 
some  good-natured  friend  or  other  1 


DIALOGUE   LXXVII. 

METAPHYSICS. 


Professor.     What  is  a  salt-box  ? 

Student     It  is  a  box  made  to  contain  salt. 

Professor.     How  is  it  divided? 

Student.     Into  a  salt-box  and  a  box  of  salt. 

Professor.     Yery  well,  show  the  distinction? 

Student.  A  salt-box  may  be  where  there  is  no  salt, 
but  salt  is  absolutely  necessary  to  the  existence  of  a  box 
of  salt. 

Professor.     Are  not  salt-boxes  otherwise  divided  ? 

Student.     Yes,  by  a  partition. 

Professor.     What  is  the  use  of  this  division  ? 

Student.     To  separate  the  coarse  salt  from  the  fine. 

Professor.     How?  think  a  little. 

Student.     To  separate  the  fine  salt  from  the  coarse. 

Professor.  To  be  sure,  to  separate  the  fine  from  the 
coarse;  but  are  not  salt-boxes  otherwise  distinguished? 

Student.     Yes ;  into  possible,  positive,  and  probable. 

Professor.     Define  these  several  kinds  of  salt-boxes. 

Student.  A  possible  salt-box  is  a  salt-box  yet  unsold, 
in  the  joiner's  hands. 

Professor.     Why  so  ? 

Student.  Because  it  hath  not  yet  become  a  salt-box, 
having  never  had  any  salt  in  it;  and  it  may  possibly  be 
applied  to  some  other  use. 

Professor.  Yery  true ;  for  a  salt-box  which  never  had, 
hath  not  now,  and  perhaps  never  may  have  any  salt  in  it, 
can  only  be  termed  a  possible  salt-box.  What  is  a  prol> 
able  salt-box  ? 

Student     It  is  a  salt-box  in  the  hand  of  one  going  to  a 


EK  PERTAINING    DIALOGUES.  259 

shop  to  buy  salt,  and  who  hath  two  pence  in  his  pocket, 
to  pay  the  shopkeeper;  and  a  positive  salt-box  is  one 
which  hath  actually  and  bona  fide  got  salt  in  it. 

Professor.  Very  good ;  what  other  division  of  salt- 
boxes  do  you  recollect  ? 

Stmknt.  They  are  divided  into  substantive  and  pend- 
ent. A  substantive  salt-box  is  that  which  stands  by  it- 
self, on  the  table  or  dresser;  and  the  pendent  is  that 
which  hangs  by  a  nail,  against  the  wall. 

Professor.     What  is  the  idea  of  a  salt-box  ? 

Student  It  is  that  image  which  the  mind  conceives  of 
H  salt-box  when  no  salt  is  present. 

Professor.     What  is  the  abstract  idea  of  a  salt-box? 

Student.  It  is  the  idea  of  a  salt-box  abstracted  from 
the  idea  of  a  box  of  salt,  or  of  a  salt-box,  or  of  a  box  of 
salt. 

Professor.  Very  right ;  by  this  means  you  acquire  a 
most  perfect  knowledge  of  a  salt-box ;  but  tell  me,  is  the 
idea  of  a  salt-box  a  salt  idea  ? 

Student.  Not  unless  the  ideal  box  hath  the  idea  of 
Rait  contained  in  it. 

Professor.  True;  and  therefore  an  abstract  idea  can 
not  be  either  salt  or  fresh,  round  or  square,  long  or  short; 
and  this  shows  the  difference  between  a  salt  idea  and  an 
idea  of  salt.  Is  an  aptitude  to  hold  salt  an  essential  or 
an  accidental  property  of  a  salt-box  ? 

Student.  It  is  an  essential ;  but  if  there  should  be  a 
crack  in  the  bottom  of  the  box,  the  aptitude  to  spill  salt 
would  be  termed  an  accidental  property  of  that  salt-box. 

Professor.  Very  well,  very  well,  indeed.  What  is  the 
salt  called,  with  respect  to  the  box  ? 

Student.     It  is  called  its  contents. 

Professor.     And  why  so  ? 

Student.  Because  the  cook  is  content  to  find  plenty  of 
salt  in  the  box. 

Professor.  You  are  very  right.  You  have  given  clear 
evidence  that  you  comprehend  the  subject  clearly. 


260  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

DIALOGUE    LXXVIII. 

LOGIC. 

Professor.  {To  the  audience.)  I  now  call  your  alten 
tion  to  an  examination  of  our  class  in  Logic.  {To  Situ- 
ilent.)     How  many  parts  are  there  in  a  salt-box  ? 

1st  Student.     Three.     Bottom,  top,  and  sides. 

Professor.     How  many  modes  are  there  in  salt-boxes? 

2d  Student.  Four.  The  formal,  the  substantial,  the 
accidental,  and  the  topsy-turvy. 

Professor.     Define  these  several  modes. 

^d  Student.  The  formal  respects  the  figure  or  shape 
of  the  box — such  as  round,  square,  oblong,  and  so  forth ; 
the  substantial  respects  the  work  of  the  joiner;  and  the 
accidental  depends  upon  the  string  by  which  the  box  is 
hung  against  the  wall. 

Professor.  Very  well.  And  what  are  the  consequen- 
ces of  the  accidental  mode  ? 

^th  Student.  If  the  string  should  break,  the  box 
would  fall,  the  salt  be  spilt,  the  salt-box  broken,  and  the 
cook  in  a  iDitter  passion ;  and  this  is  the  accidental  mode, 
with  its  consequences. 

Professor.  How  do  you  distinguish  between  the  top 
and  bottom  of  a  salt-box? 

1st  Student.  The  top  of  the  box  is  that  part  which  is 
uppermost,  and  the  bottom  that  part  which  is  lowest,  in 
all  positions. 

Professor.  You  should  rather  say  the  lowest  part  is  the 
bottom,  and  the  uppermost  part  is  the  top.  How  is  it 
then  if  the  bottom  should  be  the  uppermost! 

2d  Student.  The  top  would  then  be  the  lowermost; 
and  so  the  bottom  would  become  the  top,  and  the  top 
would  become  the  ooctcm :  and  this  is  called  the  topsy- 
turvy mode,  which  is  nearly  allied  to  the  accidental,  and 
frequently  arises  trcm  it. 

Professor.  Yery  good.  But  are  not  salt-boxes  some- 
times single  and  sometimes  double? 

2>d  Student     They  are. 

Professor.  Well,  then  mention  the  several  combina- 
tions of  salt-boxes,  with  respect  to  their  having  salt  ot 
not. 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  261 

4:ih  Student.  They  are  divided  into  single  salt- boxes 
having  salt,  single  salt-boxes  having  no  salt,  double  salt- 
boies  having  salt,  double  salt-boxes  having  no  salt, 
and  single  double  salt  boxes  having  salt  and  no  salt. 

Professor.     Hold  I  hold !  you  are  going  too  far. 


DIALOGUE   LXXIX 

NATURAL  PHILOSOPHY 


Professor.     Pray,  sir,  what  is  a  salt-box  ? 

1st  Student.  It  is  a  combination  of  matter,  fitted, 
framed,  and  joined  by  the  hands  of  a  workman  in  the 
form  of  a  box,  and  adapted  to  the  purpose  of  receiving, 
containing,  and  retaining  salt. 

Professor.  Very  good.  What  are  the  mechanical 
powers  concerned  in  the  construction  of  a  salt-box? 

2d  Student.  The  axe,  the  saw,  the  plane,  and  the 
hammer. 

Professor.  How  are  these  powers  applied  to  the  pur- 
pose intended? 

'6d  Student.  The  axe  to  fell  the  tree,  the  saw  to  split 
the  timber. 

Professor.  Consider.  Is  it  the  property  of  the  mall 
and  wedge  to  split  ? 

Ath  Student.  The  saw  to  slit  the  timber,  the  plane  to 
smooth  and  thin  the  boards. 

Professor.     How  I     Take  time  !  take  time  I 

bth  Student.     To  thin  and  smooth  the  boards. 

Professor.  To  be  sure — the  boards  are  first  thinned, 
and  then  smoothed — go  on. 

1st  Student.  The  plane  to  thin  and  smooth  the  boards, 
and  the  hammer  to  drive  the  nails. 

Professor.  Or  rather  tacks.  Have  not  some  philoso- 
phers considered  glue  as  one  of  the  mechanical  powers  ? 

2d  Student.  Yes ;  and  it  is  still  so  considered,  but  it 
IS  called  an  inverse  mechanical  power:  because,  whereas 
it  is  the  property  of  the  direct  mechanical  powers  to 
generate  motion,  and  separate  parts,  glue,  on  the  con- 
trary, prevents  motion,  and  keeps  the  parts  to  which  it  is 
appliea  fixed  to  each  other. 


262  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Professor,  Yery  true.  What  is  the  mechanical  law  of 
the  saw  ? 

^d  Student.  The  power  is  to  the  resistance  as  the 
number  of  teeth  and  force  impressed  multiplied  by  the 
number  of  strokes  in  a  given  time. 

Professoi,  Is  the  saw  only  used  in  slitting  timber  into 
boards  ? 

Uh  Student.  Yes;  it  is  also  employed  in  cutting 
boards  into  lengths. 

Professor.  Not  lengths ;  a  thing  can  not  properly  bo 
said  to  have  been  cut  into  lengths. 

bth  Student.     Into  shortnesses. 

Professor.  Certainly — into  shortnesses.  That  will  su- 
fice.     Your  examination  is  very  satisfactory. 


DIALOGUE    LXXX. 

SURGERY  AND  THE  PRACTICE  OF  PHYSIC. 

Professor.  Mention  a  few  of  the  principal  disorders  to 
which  a  salt-box  is  liable? 

1st  Student.  A  cracked  and  leaky  fundamental ;  a  gap- 
ing of  the  joint  in  the  laterals ;  luxation  of  the  hinges ; 
and  an  accession  and  concretion  of  filth  and  foulness  ex- 
ternal and  internal. 

Professor.  Yery  well.  How  would  you  treat  those 
disorders  ?     Begin  with  the  first. 

2c?  Student.  I  would  caulk  the  leak  fundamental  with 
pledgets  of  tow  wnich  I  would  secure  in  the  fissure  by  a 
strip  of  linen  or  paper  pasted  over.  For  the  starting  of 
the  lateral  joints,  I  would  administer  powerful  astringents, 
such  as  the  gluten  corneum ;  and  would  bind  the  parth 
together  by  tripple  bandages,  until  the  joints  should 
knit. 

Professor.     Would  you  not  assist  with  chalybeates  ? 

^d  Student.  Yes;  I  would  BX-tack  the  disease  vith 
prepared  iron,  in  doses  proportioned  to  the  strength  of 
the  parts. 

Professor.  How  would  you  manage  the  luxation  of 
the  hinge  ? 

4:th  Student.     I  would  first  examine  whether  it  was  oc- 


ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES.  263 

caaioned  by  the  starting  of  the  points  which  annex  the 
processes  to  the  superlateral  or  its  antagonist,  or  to  a  loss 
of  the  fulcrum,  or  to  an  absolute  fracture  of  the  sutures. 
In  the  first  case,  I  would  secure  the  process  by  a  screw ; 
in  the  second,  I  would  bring  the  sutures  together,  and 
introduce  the  fulcrum;  and,  in  the  last,  I  would  entirely 
remove  the  fractured  hinge,  and  supply  its  place,  i^ro 
tertipore,  with  one  of  leather. 

Professor.  Very  well,  sir ! — very  well ! — now  for  3  our 
iieatment  in  case  of  accumulated  foulness,  external  and 
internal — but  first  tell  me,  how  is  this  foulness  con- 
tracted ? 

Is^  Student.  Externally,  by  the  greasy  hands  of  the 
cook ;  and,  internally,  by  the  solution  and  adhesion  of 
the  saline  particles. 

Professor.     True.     And  now  for  the  cure. 

2d  Stitdent.  I  would  first  evacuate  the  abominable 
vessel,  through  the  prima  via.  I  would  then  exhibit  de- 
tergents and  diluents ;  such  as  the  saponaceous  prepara- 
tion, with  great  plenty  of  aqua  fontana. 

Professor.     Would  not  aqua  caelestis  do  better  ? 

Sd  Student.  Yes;  plenty  of  aqua  caelestis,  with  the 
marine  sand.  I  would  also  apply  the  friction-brush  with 
a  brisk  and  strong  hand,  until  the  excrementitious  con- 
crete should  be  totally  dissolved  and  removed. 

Professor.     Very  proper.     What  next? 

4:ih  Student.  I  would  recommend  the  cold  bath,  by 
means  of  a  common  pump ;  and  then  apply  lintal  ab- 
sorbents; and  finally  exsiccate  the  body  by  exposition 
either  in  the  sun  or  before  the  kitchen-fire. 

Professor.  In  what  situation  would  you  leave  the  su- 
perlateral valve  during  the  exsiccating  operation  ? 

1st  Student.  1  would  leave  it  open  to  the  extent,  in 
order  that  the  rarefied  humidities  might  freely  exhale 
from  the  abominable  cavities  or  sinuses. 


264  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

DIALOGUE    LXXXI. 

FIDELITY  REWARDED. 

King,  Miller,  Courtier. 

King.  {Enters  alone^  wrapped  in  a  cloak)  No,  no,  this 
can  be  no  public  road,  that's  certain.  I  have  lost  my 
way,  undoubtedly.  Of  what  advantage  is  it  now  to  be  a 
king  ?  Night  shows  me  no  respect ;  I  can  not  see  better, 
nor  walk  so  well,  as  another  man.  When  a  king  is  lost 
in  a  wood,  what  is  he  more  than  other  men?  His  wis- 
dom knows  not  which  is  north,  and  which  is  south ;  his 
power  a  beggar's  dog  would  bark  at,  and  the  beggar  him- 
self would  not  bow  to  his  greatness.  And  yet  how  often 
are  we  puffed  up  with  these  false  attributes !  Well,  in 
losing  the  monarch  I  have  found  the  man.  But  hark  ! 
somebody  sure  is  near.  What  were  it  best  to  do  ?  Will 
my  majesty  protect  me  ?  No.  Throw  majesty  aside, 
then,  and  let  manhood  do  it. 

{Enter  the  Miller.) 

Miller.     I  believe  I  hear  the  rogue.     Who's  there. 

King.     No  rogue,  I  assure  you. 

Miller.  Little  better,  friend,  I  believe.  Who  fired 
that  gun  ? 

King.     Not  I,  indeed. 

Miller.     You  lie,  I  believe. 

King.  {Aside.)  Lie,  lie !  how  strange  it  seems  to  me 
to  be  talked  to  in  this  style.  {Aloud.)  Upon  my  word, 
I  don't,  sir. 

Miller.  Come,  come,  sirrah,  confess ;  you  have  shot 
one  of  the  king's  deer,  haven't  you  ? 

King.  No,  indeed  ;  I  owe  the  king  more  respect.  I 
heard  a  gun  go  off,  to  be  sure,  and  was  afraid  some  rob- 
bers might  have  been  near. 

Miller.  I  am  not  bound  to  believe  this,  friend.  Pray, 
who  are  you  ?     What's  your  name  ? 

King.     Name ! 

Miller.  Name  !  ay,  name.  You  have  a  name,  haven't 
you  ?  Where  do  you  come  from  ?  What  is  your  busi- 
ness here  ? 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  266 

King.  These  are  questions  I  have  not  been  used  to, 
honest  man. 

Miller.  May  be  so  ;  but  they  are  questions  no  honest 
man  would  be  afraid  to  answer ;  so,  if  you  can  give  no 
better  account  of  yourself,  I  shall  make  bold  to  take  you 
along  with  me,  if  you  please. 

JGng.  With  you!  What  authority  have  you 
to 

Miller.  The  king's  authority,  if  I  must  give  you  an 
account.  Sir,  I  am  John  Cockle,  the  nliller  of  Mansfield, 
one  of  his  majesty's  keepers  in  the  forest  of  Sherwood ; 
and  I  will  let  no  suspicious  fellow  pass  this  way,  unless 
he  can  give  a  better  account  of  himself  than  you  have 
done,  I  promise  you. 

King.  Very  well,  sir,  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  the  king 
has  so  good  an  officer ;  and,  since  I  find  you  have  his 
authority,  I  will  give  you  a  better  account  of  myself,  if 
you  will  do  me  the  favor  to  hear  it. 

Miller.  You  don't  deserve  it,  I  believe ;  but  let's  heai 
what  you  can  say  for  yourself. 

King.  I  have  the  honor  to  belong  to  the  king,  as  well 
as  you,  and  perhaps  should  be  as  unwilling  to  see  any 
wrong  done.  I  came  down  with  him  to  hunt  in  this  for- 
est, and  the  chase  leading  us  to-day  a  great  way  from 
home,  I  am  benighted  in  this  wood,  and  have  lost  my  way. 

Miller.  This  does  not  sound  well ;  if  you  have  been 
hunting,  pray  where  is  your  horse  ? 

King.  I  have  tired  my  horse  so  that  he  lay  down 
under  me,  and  I  was  obliged  to  leave  him. 

Miller.     If  I  thought  I  might  believe  this  now. 

King.     I  am  not  used  to  lie,  honest  man. 

Miller.  What,  do  you  live  at  court  and  not  lie  ?  that's 
3  likely  story,  indeed ! 

King.  Be  that  as  it  may,  I  speak  truth  now,  I  assure 
you ;  and  to  convince  you  of  it,  if  you  will  attend  me  to 
Nottingham,  or  give  me  a  night's  lodging  in  your  house, 
here  is  something  to  pay  you  for  your  trouble,  {offering 
jnoney,)  and  if  that  is  not  sufficient,  I  will  satisfy  you  in 
the  morning  to  your  utmost  desire. 

Miller.  Aye,  now  I  am  convinced  you  are  a  courtier  ; 
here  is  a  little  bribe  for  to-day  and  a  large  promise  fop 
to-morrow,  both  in  a  breath.     Here,  take  it  again ;  Johi} 

23 


266  ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES. 

Cockle  is  no  courtier.  He  can  do  what  he  ought  wilhom 
a  bribe. 

King.  Thou  art  a  very  extraordinary  man,  I  must 
own ;  and  I  should  be  glad,  methinks,  to  be  further  ac- 
quainted with  thee. 

Miller.  Prithee,  don't  thee  and  thou  me  at  this  rate. 
I  Fuppi  )se  I  am  as  good  a  man  as  yourself,  at  least. 

King.     Sir,  I  beg  pardon. 

Miller.  Nay,  I  am  not  angry,  friend ;  only  I  don't  love 
to  be  too  familiar  with  you  until  I  am  satisfied  as  to  your 
bonesiy. 

King.     You  are  right.     But  what  am  I  to  do  ? 

Miller.  You  may  do  what  you  please.  You  are 
twelve  miles  from  Nottingham,  and  all  the  way  through 
this  thick  wood ;  but,  if  you  are  resolved  upon  going 
thither  to-night,  I  will  put  you  in  the  road  and  direct 
you  the  best  I  can ;  or,  if  you  will  accept  of  such  poor 
entertainment  as  a  miller  can  give,  you  shall  be  welcome 
to  stay  all  night,  and  in  the  morning  I  will  go  with  you 
myself. 

King.     And  can  not  you  go  with  me  to-night? 

Miller.  I  would  not  go  with  you  to-night  if  you  were 
the  king  himself 

King.     Then  I  must  go  with  you,  I  think. 

{Enter  a  courtier  in  haste.) 

Courtier.  Ah !  is  your  majesty  safe  ?  We  have 
hunted  the  forest  over  to  find  you. 

Miller,  How !  are  you  the  king !  {Krieels.)  Your 
majesty  will  pardon  the  ill-usage  you  have  received. 
(The  king  draws  his  sword.)  His  majesty  surely  will  not 
kill  a  servant  for  doing  his  duty  too  faithfully. 

King,  No,  my  good  fellow.  So  far  from  having  any 
thing  to  pardon,  I  am  much  your  debtor.  I  can  not 
think  but  so  good  and  honest  a  man  will  make  a  worthy 
and  honorable  knight.  Rise,  Sir  John  Cockle,  and  receive 
tliis  sword  as  a  badge  of  knighthood  and  a  pledge  of  my 
protection ;  and  to  support  your  nobility,  and  in  some 
measure  requite  you  for  the  pleasure  you  have  done  us, 
a  thousand  crowns  a  year  shall  be  your  revenue. 


KXTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  »     267 

DIALOGUE   LXXXII. 

ORDER  AND  DISORDER. 

Sarah.  Mother,  our  teacher  is  always  talking  abcat 
order.     Why  does  she  say  so  much  about  it  ? 

Mother.  Not  always,  my  daughter  ;  but  I  do  not  won- 
der that  she  insists  upon  it  a  great  deal.  Children  arc 
very  apt  to  be  disorderly. 

Sarah.  But  I  have  often  heard  people  say  that  the 
whole  world  of  mankind  is  full  of  disorder. 

Mother.  That  is  true.  And  that  is  why  it  is  so  nec- 
essary to  strive  to  bring  children  into  order,  that  when 
they  grow  up  they  may  make  the  world  more  orderly. 

Sarah.  But,  mother,  has  the  fixing  my  books  rightly 
in  my  desk,  having  my  clothes  arranged,  having  a  place 
for  every  thing  and  every  thing  in  its  place — has  all  this 
any  thing  to  do  with  making  the  world  more  orderly  ? 

Mother.  A  great  deal  more,  Sarah,  than  some  people 
think.  Get  your  work  and  sit  down  beside  me,  and  I 
will  try  to  make  it  plain  to  you.  Do  you  recollect  the 
fire  that  happened  near  us,  about  a  year  ago  ? 

Sarah.  Indeed  I  do,  mother;  such  a  hurrying  and 
driving,  and  exclamations  and  orders — it  seemed  as  if 
people  were  crazy. 

Mother.  Do  you  remember  that  some  people  threw 
looking-glasses  out  of  the  window,  and  brought  feather 
beds  carefully  down  stairs  in  their  arms?  Do  you  recol- 
lect how  one  ran  this  way  and  another  that,  with  different 
parts  of  the  same  article,  till  things  were  scattered  about, 
and  ruinously  piled  and  jumbled  together? 

Sarah.  It  was  distressing,  but  almost  laughable. 
People  seemed  to  have  lost  their  wits. 

Mother.  •  But  how  soon  Was  all  this  changed,  when  the 
chief  engineer  arrived  and  took  command  of  the  crowd  I 
He  placed  his  assistants  in  their  order,  calmly  led  the 
hose  to  where  it  would  do  the  most  good,  and  set  certain 
men  to  one  kind  of  work,  and  certain  men  to  another. 
Do  you  remember  how  at  once  order  reigned  every  where, 
and  how  much  was  accomplished  in  a  little  time? 

Sarah.     Yes,  mother,  I  remember  all  this  very  distinct* 


2G8     ,        ^  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

ly,  and  I  perceive  that,  without  order,  people  lose  their 
wits,  and  have  not  the  proper  command  of  even  theii 
ordinary  faculties. 

Mother.  Look  abroad  into  the  animal  world;  how 
could  there  be  growth,  preservation,  existence  even, 
without  the  orderly  arrangement  of  vessels,  fibers,  mus- 
cles, bones,  and  various  organs? 

Sarah.  I  have  just  been  studying  Botany,  and  I  am 
sure  there  is  order  there ;  and  I  see  that  beauty,  and  use- 
fulness, and  even  existence,  would  be  lost  without  it. 

Mother.  It  is  the  same  in  the  mineral  world ;  in  every 
particle  of  matter,  and  in  all  worlds.  Order  reigns 
every  where  in  nature,  throughout  the  universe  of  God, 
so  that  the  Bible  says,  "  God  is  a  God  of  order,  and  not 
of  confurion." 

Sarah.  I  see  it  very  plainly.  Will  you  now  explain 
how  order  is  connected  with  good  morals  and  relig- 
ion ? 

Mother.  We  find  that,  in  the  confusion  of  the  fire 
near  us  last  winter,  people  could  not  command  their 
thoughts  nor  themselves.  Kow,  if  people  can  not  think 
correctly  except  there  be  order,  how  can  they  receive 
truth  in  their  midst,  and  make  a  proper  use  of  it,  unless 
there  be  order  ? 

Sarah.  Yes,  mother;  but  it  was  mental  order  that 
was  wanting. 

Mother.  But  did  not  the  disorder  and  confusion  of  the 
material  things  around  create  and  increase  the  disorder 
of  their  minds  ?  And  did  not  the  putting  in  order  of  the 
things  about  them,  the  orderly  arrangement  of  external 
things,  bring  their  minds  into  order  again  ? 

Sarah.  I  suppose  we  can  learn  grammar,  arithmetic, 
geography,  and  all  other  sciences,  in  much  less  time,  and 
with  much  less  labor,  in  consequence  of  their  being  ar- 
ranged in  our  school-books  in  an  orderly  manner. 

Mother.  Yes  ;  without  this  order  we  could  not  master 
any  science,  much  less  all  sciences. 

Sarah.  I  think  I  have  always  noticed  that  the  })est 
sort  of  people  are  the  most  orderly. 

Mother.  No  doubt  it  is  so  :  hence  the  poet  tells  us  that 
"  Order  is  Heaven's  first  law." 

Sarah.     It  seems  to  me  that  people  that  were  slovenly 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  269 

about  their  houses,  and  in  their  personal  habits,  were 
generally  slovenly  in  their  moral  habits,  if  not  vicious. 

Mother.  Frequently,  at  least,  thev  are  so,  my  daugh- 
ter. And  as  the  habits  of  the  mind  and  heart,  as  a  per- 
son grows  older,  express  themselves  in  the  lineaments 
of  the  countenance,  so  will  they  express  themselves  in 
what  surrounds  us. 

Sarah.  I  recollect  that  you  once  told  me  that  cleanli- 
ness was  a  help  to  virtue,  and  a  want  of  it  a  help  to  vice. 
I  suppose  that  order  acts  and  reacts  upon  our  habits  in 
the  same  way. 

MotJier.  If  you  try  the  experiment  a  short  time,  you 
will  perceive  the  effects  of  disorder  very  plainly.  You 
will  find  that  order  in  the  arrangement  of  your  dress, 
books,  and  work-box  will  assist  your  temper,  save  your 
time,  help  your  efficiency,  and  give  you  the  power  to  do 
right  and  be  useful ;  while  disorder  will  produce  the  con- 
trary effects. 

Order  in  the  distribution  and  allotment  of  your  time 
will  give  tenfold  usefulness  to  your  life. 

Order  in  the  disposal  of  your  thoughts  will  give  you 
clearness  of  conception,  and  beauty  and  force  in  express- 
ing your  ideas. 

Order  in  the  government,  control,  and  direction  of 
your  affections  will  secure  you  peace  and  happiness. 

Sarah.  Can  you  not  give  me  some  rules  for  securing 
this  last  and  most  important  kind  of  order  ? 

Mother.  The  ten  commandments  are  the  best  rules  I 
can  give  you,  my  dear  child  ;  and  these  are  summed  up 
in  the  two  great  precepts  of  divine  order  given  by  our 
Saviour,  namely: — "  Thou  shalt  love  the  Lord  thy  God 
with  all  thy  heart,  and  all  thy  strength,  and  thy  neigh- 
bor as  thyself." 


DIALOGUE   LXXXIII. 

A  CHANGE  IN  THE  PROGRAMME. 

Sir  John  Melvil  and  Sterling. 


Sterling.    What  are  your  commands  with  me,   Sir 
John? 

23* 


270  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Sir  John.  After  having  carried  the  negotiation  be* 
tween  our  families  to  so  great  a  length,  after  having  as- 
sented so  readily  to  all  your  proposals,  as  well  as  received 
so  many  instances  of  your  cheerful  compliance  with  the 
demands  made  on  our  part,  I  am  extremely  concerned, 
Mr.  Sterling,  to  be  the  involuntary  cause  of  any  unejisi- 
ness. 

Sterling.  Uneasiness  !  what  uneasiness  !  Where  bus- 
iness is  transacted  as  it  ought  to  be,  and  the  parties  un- 
derstand one  another,  there  can  be  no  uneasiness.  You 
agree,  on  such  and  such  conditions,  to  receive  my  daugh- 
ter for  a  wife ;  on  the  same  conditions,  I  agree  to  receive 
you  as  a  son-in-law ;  and,  as  to  all  the  rest,  it  follows  of 
course,  you  know,  as  regularly  as  the  payment  of  a  bill 
after  acceptance. 

Sir  John.  Pardon  me,  sir ;  more  uneasiness  has  arisen 
than  you  are  aware  of.  I  am,  myself,  at  this  instant,  in 
a  state  of  inexpressible  embarrassment ;  Miss  Sterling,  I 
know,  is  extremely  disconcerted,  too ;  and,  unless  you 
will  oblige  me  with  the  assistance  of  your  friendship,  I 
foresee  the  speedy  progress  of  discontent  and  animosity 
through  the  whole  family. 

Sterling.  What  the  deuce  is  all  this  ?  I  do  not  un- 
derstand a  single  syllable. 

Sir  John.  In  one  word,  then,  it  will  be  absolutely  im- 
possible for  me  to  fulfill  my  engagements  in  regard  to 
Miss  Sterling. 

Sterling.  How,  Sir  John?  Do  you  mean  to  put  an 
affront  upon  my  family  ?     What !  refuse  to 

Sir  John.  Be  assured,  sir,  that  I  neither  mean  to  af- 
front nor  forsake  your  family.  My  only  fear  is  that 
you  should  desert  me ;  for  the  whole  happiness  of  my 
life  depends  upon  my  being  connected  with  your  family 
by  the  nearest  and  tenderest  ties  in  the  world. 

Sterling.  Why,  did  not  you  tell  me,  but  a  moment 
ago,  it  was  absolutely  impossible  for  you  to  marry  my 
daughter  ? 

Sir  John.  True:  but  you  have  another  daughter, 
sir 

Staling.     Well? 

Sir  John.  Who  has  obtained  the  most  absolute  do- 
minion over  my  heart.     I  have  already  declared  my  pas* 


ENTERTAINING     DIALOGUES.  271 

sion  to  her;  nay.  Miss  Sterling  herself  is  also  apprised 
of  it,  and,  if  you  will  but  give  sanction  to  my  present  ad- 
dresses, the  uncommon  merit  of  Miss  Sterling  will  no 
doubt  recommend  her  to  a  person  of  equal  if  not  superior 
rank  to  myself,  and  our  famiUes  may  still  be  allied  by  my 
union  with  Miss  Fanny. 

Sterling,  Mighty  fine,  truly!  Why,  what  the  plague  do 
you  make  of  us.  Sir  John  ?  Do  you  come  to  market  for 
my  daughters,  like  servants  at  a  statute-fair?  Do  you 
think  that  I  will  suffer  you,  or  any  man  in  the  world,  to 
come  into  my  house,  like  the  Grand  Siguier,  and  throw 
the  handkerchief  first  to  one  and  then  to  t'other,  just  as 
he  pleases?  Do  you  think  I  drive  a  kind  of  African  slave- 
trade  with  them .''  and 

Sir  John.  A  moment's  patience,  sir !  Nothing  but  the 
excess  of  my  passion  for  Miss  Fanny  should  have  induced 
me  to  take  any  step  that  had  the  least  appearance  of  dis- 
respect to  any  part  of  your  family :  and  even  now  I  am  de- 
sirous to  atone  for  my  transgression,  by  making  the  most 
adequate  compensation  that  lies  in  my  power. 

Sterling.  Compensation  I  what  compensation  can  you 
possibly  make  in  such  a  case  as  this,  Sir  John  ? 

Sir  John.  Come,  come  Mr.  Sterling ;  I  know  you  to 
])e  a  man  of  sense,  and  a  man  of  business — a  man  of  the 
world.  I  will  deal  frankly  with  you ;  and  you  shall  see 
that  I  do  not  desire  a  change  of  measures  for  my  own 
gratification,  without  endeavoring  to  make  it  advanta- 
geous to  you. 

Sterling  What  advantage  can  your  inconstancy  be  to 
me.  Sir  John  ? 

Sir  John.  I  will  tell  you,  sir.  You  know  tbat,  by  the 
articles' at  present  subsisting  between  us,  on  the  day  of 
my  marriage  with  Miss  Sterling,  you  agree  to  pay  down 
the  gross  sum  of  eighty  thousand  pounds. 

Sterling.     Well ! 

Sir  John.  Now,  if  you  will  but  consent  to  my  waiv- 
ing that  marriage 

Sterling.  I  agree  to  your  waiving  that  marriage  ?  Im- 
possible, Sir  John ! 

Sir  John.  I  hope  not,  sir ;  as,  on  my  part,  I  will  agree 
to  waive  my  right  to  thirty  thousand  pounds  of  the  for- 
t'vne  I  was  to  receive  with  her. 


272  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Sterling.     Thirty  thousand,  do  you  say  ? 

Sir  John.  Yes,  sir ;  and  accept  of  Miss  Fanny  with 
fifty  thousand,  instead  of  fourscore. 

Sterling.     Fifty  thousand 

Sir  John.     Instead  of  fourscore. 

Sterling.  Why,  why,  there  may  be  something  in  that. 
Let  me  see ;  Fanny  with  fifty  thousand  instead  of  Bet- 
sey with  fourscore.  But  how  can  this  be.  Sir  John? 
VoT  you  know  I  am  to  pay  this  money  into  the  hands  of 
my  Lord  Ogleby ;  who,  I  believe,  betwixt  you  and  me, 
Sir  John,  is  not  overstocked  with  ready-money  at  pres- 
ent; and  threescore  thousand  of  it,  you  know,  is  to  go  to 
pay  off  the  present  incumbrances  on  the  estate.  Sir  John. 

Sir  John.  That  objection  is  easily  obviated.  Ten  of 
the  twenty  thousand,  which  would  remain  as  a  surplus 
of  the  fourscore,  after  paying  off  the  mortgage,  was  in- 
tended by  his  lordship  for  my  use,  that  we  might  set  off 
with  some  little  6clat  on  our  marriage ;  and  the  other 
ten  for  his  own.  Ten  thousand  pounds  therefore  I  shall 
be  able  to  pay  you  immediately ;  and  for  the  remaining 
twenty  thousand  you  shall  have  a  mortgage  on  that  part 
of  the  estate  which  is  to  be  made  over  to  me,  with  what- 
ever security  you  shall  require  for  the  regular  payment 
of  the  interest,  till  the  principal  is  duly  discharged. 

Sterling.  Why,  to  do  you  justice,  Sir  John,  there  is 
something  fair  and  open  in  your  proposal;  and,  since 
I  find  you  do  not  mean  to  put  an  affront  upon  the 
family 

Sir  John.  Nothing  was  ever  further  from  my  thoughts, 
Mr.  Sterling.  And,  after  all,  the  whole  affair  is  nothing 
extraordinary;  such  things  happen  every  day;  and  as 
the  world  had  only  heard  generally  of  a  treaty  between 
the  families,  when  this  marriage  takes  place  nobody  will 
be  the  wiser,  if  we  have  but  discretion  enough  to  keep 
our  own  counsel. 

Sterling.  True,  true ;  and,  since  you  only  transfer  from 
one  girl  to  the  other,  it  is  no  more  than  transferring  so 
much  stock,  you  know. 

Sir  John.     The  very  thing. 

Sterling.  But  stop !  I  had  quite  forgot.  We  are  reck 
oning  without  our  host  here.  There  is  another  diffi- 
culty   


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  273 

Sir  John.     You  alarm  me.     What  can  that  be  ? 

Sterling.  I  can  not  stir  a  step  in  this  business,  without 
consulting  my  sister  Heidelberg.  The  family  has  very 
great  expectations  from  her,  and  we  must  not  give  her 
any  offense. 

Sir  John.  But  if  you  come  into  this  measure,  surely 
slie  will  be  so  kind  as  to  consent 

Sterling.  I  do  not  know  that.  Betsey  is  her  darling, 
and  I  can  not  tell  how  far  she  may  resent  any  slight  that 
seems  to  be  offered  to  her  favorite  niece.  However,  I 
will  do  the  best  I  can  for  you.  You  shall  go  and  break 
the  matter  to  her  first,  and,  by  the  time  that  I  may  sup- 
pose that  your  rhetoric  has  prevailed  upon  her  to  listen 
to  reason,  I  will  step  in  to  re-enforce  your  arguments. 

Sir  John.  I  will  fly  to  her  immediately:  you  promise 
me  your  assistance  ? 

Sterling.     I  do. 

Sir  John.  Ten  thousand  thanks  for  it !  and  now  suc- 
cess attend  me  I 

Sterling.  Harkee,  Sir  John !  ISTot  a  word  of  the 
thirty  thousand  to  my  sister.  Sir  John. 

Sir  John.     Oh,  I  am  dumb,  I  am  dumb,  sir. 

Sterling.     You  remember  it  is  thirty  thousand. 

Sir  John.     To  be  sure  I  do. 

Sterling.  But,  Sir  John!  one  thing  more,  my  lord 
must  know  nothing  of  this  stroke  of  friendship  be- 
tween us. 

Sir  John.  Not  for  the  world.  Let  me  alone !  let  me 
alone ! 

Sterling.  And,  when  every  thing  is  agreed,  we  must 
give  each  other  a  bond  to  be  held  fast  to  the  bargain. 

Sir  John.  To  be  sure.  A  bond  by  all  means !  a  bond, 
or  whatever  you  please.     {Exit.) 

Sterling.  {Alone.)  I  should  have  thought  of  more 
conditions;  he  is  in  a  humor  to  give  me  every  thing. 
Why,  what  mere  children  are  your  fellows  of  quality; 
that  cry  for  a  plaything  one  minute,  and  throw  it  by  the 
next!  as  changeable  as  the  weather,  and  as  uncertain  as 
the  stocks.  Special  fellows  to  drive  a  bargain  I  and  yet 
they  are  to  take  care  of  the  interest  of -the  nation,  truly. 
Here  does  this  whirligig  man  of  fashion  offer  to  give  up 
thirty  thousand  pounds  in  hard  money,  with  as  much  inv 


274  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

difference  as  if  it  was  a  China  orange.  By  this  mor^ 
gage  I  shall  have  a  hold  on  his  terra  firma ;  and,  if  be 
wants  more  money,  as  he  certainly  will,  let  him  have 
children  by  my  daughter  or  no,  I  shall  have  his  whole 
estate  in  a  net,  for  the  benefit  of  my  family.  Well,  thus 
it  is  that  the  children  of  citizens,  who  have  acquired 
fortunes,  prove  persons  of  fashion ;  and  thus  it  is  that 
Dersons  of  fashion,  who  have  ruined  their  fortunes,  re- 
duce the  next  generation  to  common  citizens. 


Dialogue  lxxxiv. 

ON  THE  ADDRESS  OF  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL  SOCIETY  TO  DR.  FRANKLIN. 

A.  I  am  surprised  that  our  Philosophical  Society, 
from  whom  we  might  expect,  on  sueh  an  occasion,  at 
least,  ease  and  propriety,  if  not  something  more,  should 
exhibit  so  barren,  so  stiff,  and  costive  a  performance  as 
their  address  seems  to  be.  It  must  certainly  have  been 
seethed  too  long  in  the  author's  brain,  and  so  become 
hard  like  an  overboiled  egg. 

B.  I  perceive,  sir,  you  are  not  a  member  of  the  Phil- 
osophical Society. 

A.  No,  sir ;  I  have  not  that  honor. 

B.  So  I  thought  by  your  mentioning  brains.  Why, 
sir,  we  never  make  use  of  any  in  writing  letters,  or  draw- 
ing addresses :  we  manage  these  things  in  quite  a  differ- 
ent way.  How  do  you  imagine  our  address  was  pro- 
duced ? 

A.  Some  member,  I  suppose,  was  appointed  to  draft 
the  address,  which  was  afterward  read  before  the  society; 
and,  being  corrected,  was  finally  approved  of,  and  so  de- 
livered. 

B.  When  you  become  a  philosopher  you  will  know 
better:  no,  sir,  we  conduct  all  our  business  by  ballot, 
as  they  choose  magistrates — according  to  the  spirit  of  our 
excellent  constitution. 

A.  No  doubt,  when  new  members  or  ofl&cers  of  the 
institution  are  to  be  elected ;  but  how  an  address  can  be 
composed  by  ballot,  I  confess,  I  can  not  comprehend. 

B     Well,   I  will  inform  vou.     You  must  know  we 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  276 

have  four  boxes:  in  one  are  put  a  number  of  substan- 
tives, the  best  the  dictionary  affords ,  in  the  second,  an 
equal  number  of  adjectives;  in  the  third,  a  great  number 
of  verbs,  with  their  participles,  gerunds,  &;c. ;  and,  in  the 
fourth,  a  still  greater  number  of  pronouns,  articles,  and 
particles,  with  all  the  small  ware  of  the  syntax.  The 
secretary  shakes  these  boxes  for  a  considerable  time,  and 
then  places  them  side  by  side  on  a  table,  each  bearing  its 
proper  label   of  distinction.      This  done,   the  members 

Eroceed  to  ballot  for  the  composition,  whatever  it  may 
e ;  each  member  taking  out  one  substantive,  one  adjec- 
tive, two  verbs,  and  four  particles,  from  the  boxes  re- 
spectively ;  and  so  they  proceed,  repeating  the  operation, 
until  they  have  drawn  the  number  of  words  of  which, 
according  to  a  previous  determination,  the  composition  is 
to  consist.  Some  ingenious  member  is  then  requested  to 
take  all  the  ballots,  or  words,  so  obtained,  and  arrange 
them  in  the  best  order  he  can.  In  the  present  case  this 
task  fell  to  ***** ;  and  you  can  see  how  he  has  worked 
up  the  materials  which  chance  threw  in  his  way. 

A.  If  this  is  your  method  it  will  sufficiently  account 
for  the  short,  broken  sentences,  the  harshness  of  the 
periods,  and  general  obscurity  which  distinguish  your 
address. 

B.  What  do  you  mean  by  obscurity  ?  I  am  sure  our 
address,  if  not  elegant,  is  at  least  intelligible. 

A.  Pray  inform  me,  then,  what  is  meant  by  this  para- 
graph :  "  The  high  consideration  and  esteem  in  which  we 
hold  your  character,  so  intimately  combine  with  our  re- 
gard for  the  public  welfare,  that  w^e  participate  eminently 
in  the  general  satisfaction  which  your  return  to  America 
produces."  And  of  this  "We  derive  encouragement 
and  extraordinary  felicity  from  an  assemblage  of  recent 
memorable  events ;  and,  while  we  boast  in  a  most  pleas- 
mg  equality,  permanently  ascertained,"  &c.,  &c. 

B.  The  meaning  of  your  first  quotation  is,  that  our 
high  consideration  for  the  doctor,  combining  and  inti- 
mately mixing  with  our  regard  for  the  public  welfare, 
occasion  a  kind  of  chymical  solution  or  effervescence  in 
our  minds,  producmg  a  tertium  quid,  which  causes  us  to 
participate  eminently,  and  so  on;  if  you  know  any  thing 
of  chymistry,  you  would  have  understood  it  well  enough. 


276  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

« 

A.  Well,  it  appears  to  me  something  very  like  non* 
sense ;  but,  I  confess,  I  am  no  philosopher. 

B.  As  to  the  other  passage  you  mentioned,  the  truth 
is  we  were  a  little  unlucky — it  would  have  been  the 
most  elegant  paragraph  in  the  whole  composition  but  for 
an  unfortunate  accident.  You  must  know  that,  whilst 
*-5f*-K-*  ^j^g  arranging  the  ballots,  a  puff  of  wind  blew 
away  a  number  of  excellent  explanatory  words,  and  car- 
ried them  out  of  the  window ;  the  whole  sentence  had 
like  to  have  gone ;  a  careful  search  was  made  in  the 
street  but  no  more  could  be  recovered  than  what  you 
see.  It  was,  indeed,  proposed  to  ballot  over  again  for  as 
many  words  as  had  been  lost ;  but  some  members  were 
of  opinion  that  this  might  prove  a  dangerous  precedent, 
and  so  the  passage  was  suffered  to  pass  as  it  now  stands. 

A.  I  observe,  further,  that  you  mention  "  the  growth 
of  sciences  and  arts."  Would  it  not  have  read  better 
"the  growth  of  arts  and  sciences,"  according  to  the  usual 
mode  of  expression?  which  has  this  to  justify  it,  that 
arts  were  known  and  practiced  before  sciences  were  in- 
vestigated ;  and,  besides,  the  expression  is  more  musical 
and  pleasing  to  the  ear. 

B.  We  had  a  long  debate  upon  this  subject,  and  the 
very  reasons  you  now  give  were  urged  in  favor  of  the 
common  way  of  placing  those  words ;  but  the  learned 
compositor  insisted  that,  as  the  sciences  were  more  ab- 
struse and  more  eminent  in  dignity  than  the  arts,  they 
ought  to  be  mentioned  first,  especiall}^  by  a  philosophical 
society. 

A.  This  reminds  me  of  what  the  town -clerk  says  in 
Shakspeare's  Much  Ado  About  Nothing:  ("  To.  CI)  ''  Write 
down  that  they  hope  they  serve  God :  and  be  sure  to 
write  God  first;  for  God  defend,  but  God  should  go 
before  such  villains." 

B,  It  is  in  vain  to  attempt  explanation  to  a  mind  so 
prejudiced  as  yours.  I  perceive  you  are  determined  to 
find  fault,  and  so  let  us  drop  the  subject. 

A.  Why,  do  you  imagine  I  believe  one  word  of  your 
boxes  and  your  ballots?  You  are  either  ridiculing  oi 
endeavoring  to  excuse  a  performance  which  would  in- 
deed disgrace  a  school-boy. 

When   I   compare  this  address  with  the  president's 


ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES.  277 

short  but  elegant  reply,  I  can  not  but  observe  how 
strongly  the  difference  is  marked  between  an  author  who 
sits  down  to  think  what  he  shall  write  and  one  who  only 
sits  down  to  write  what  he  thinks. 


DIALOGUE   LXXXV. 

EXTRAVAGANCE  IN  TALKING 


Susan.  My  dear  mother,  who  worked  this  scarf  lor 
you  ?     It  is  excessively  pretty. 

Mother.     I  am  very  sorry-  for  it,  my  dear. 

Susan.  Sorry !  Why,  mother !  are  you  sorry  it  is 
pretty? 

Mother.     No ;  but  I  am  sorry  it  is  excessively  pretty. 

Susan.  Why  so  ?  A  thing  can  not  be  too  pretty, 
can  it? 

Mother.  If  so,  it  can  not  be  excessively  pretty.  Pray, 
what  do  you  mean  by  "excessively  pretty?" 

Su^an.  Why,  "excessively  pretty"  means — it  means 
very  pretty. 

Mother.  What  does  the  word  "excessively"  come 
from?  What  part  of  speech  is  it?  You  know  your 
grammar,  I  suppose? 

Susan.  It  is  an  adverb ;  the  words  that  end  in  ?y  are 
adverbs. 

Mother.  Adverbs  are  derived  from  adjectives  by  add- 
ing ly,  you  should  have  said — as,  excessive,  excessiveZi/ ; 
and  now  what  is  the  noun  from  which  they  are  derived  ? 

Susan.     Excess. 

Mother      And  what  does  "excess"  mean? 

Stisan.     It  means  too  much  of  any  thing. 

Mother.  You  see,  then,  that  it  implies  a  fault,  and 
therefore  can  not  be  applied  as  a  commendation.  We 
say  a  man  is  excessively  greedy,  excessively  liberal ;  a 
woman  excessively  fine ;  but  not  that  a  man  is  excess- 
ively wise,  a  woman  excessively  faithful  to  her  husband; 
because  in  these  qualities  there  can  be  no  excess ;  nor 
is  there  any  in  beauty — that  being  the  true  and  just  pio- 
portion  which  gives  pleasure. 

Susan.     But  we  say  excessivelv  kind. 
24 


278  ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES. 

Mother.  We  do,  because  kindness  has  its  limits.  A 
person  may  be  too  kind  to  us,  who  exposes  himself  to  a 
great  and  serious  inconvenience  to  give  us  only  a  slight 
pleasu]"e ;  we  also  may  mean  by  it  exceeding  that  kind- 
ness which  we  have  a  right  to  expect.  But  when  people 
use  it  as  they  often  do,  on  the  slightest  occasion,  it  is  cer- 
tainly as  wrong  as  "excessively  pretty." 

Susan.  But,  mother,  must  we  always  consider  so 
much  the  exact  meaning  of  words?  Every  body  says 
"excessively  pretty,"  and  "excessively  tall,"  and  "infi- 
nitely obliged  to  you."     What  harm  can  it  do  ? 

Mother.  That  every  body  does  it,  I  deny — that  the 
generality  do  it,  is  very  true ;  but  it  is  likewise  true  that 
the  generality  are  not  to  be  taken  as  a  pattern  in  any 
thing.  As  to  the  harm  it  does — in  the  first  place,  it  in- 
jures our  sincerity. 

Susan.     Why,  it  is  not  telling  a  lie,  surely? 

Mother.  Certainly  I  do  not  mean  to  say  it  is ;  but  it 
tends  to  sap  and  undermine  the  foundations  of  our  in- 
tegrity by  making  us  careless,  if  not  in  the  facts  we  as- 
sert, yet  in  the  measure  and  degree  in  which  we  assert 
them. 

If  we  do  not  pretend  to  love  those  for  whom  we  have 
no  aflPection,  nor  to  admire  those  we  despise,  at  least  we 
lead  them  to  think  we  admire  them  more,  and  love  them 
better,  than  we  really  do ;  and  this  prepares  the  way  for 
more  serious  deviations  from  the  truth. 

So  much  for  its  concern  with  morality ;  but  it  has  like- 
wise a  very  bad  effect  on  o*  "^  taste.  What,  think  you,  is 
the  reason  that  young  peo^  e,  especially,  run  into  these 
vague  and  exaggerated  expressions  ? 

Susan.     What  does  "vague"  mean,  mother? 

Mother.  It  means  what  has  no  precise  or  definite  sig- 
nification. Young  people  run  into  these,  sometimes,  in- 
deed, from  having  more  feeling  than  judgment,  but  more 
commonly  from  not  knowing  how  to  separate  their  ideas, 
and  to  tell  what  it  is  with  which  they  are  pleased. 

They  either  do  not  know  or  will  not  give  themselves 
the  trouble  to  mark  the  qualities,  or  to  describe  the 
scenes,  which  disgust  or  please  them ;  and  they  hope  to 
conceal  their  deficiency  by  these  extravagant  expressions ; 
as  if  your  dress-maker,  not  knowing  your  shape,  should 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  279 

make  a  large,  lose  dress,  that  would  cover  you  over 
were  you  twice  as  tall  as  you  are. 

Now  you  would  have  shown  your  taste  if,  in  commend- 
ing my  scarf,  you  had  said  that  the  pattern  was  light,  or 
that  it  was  rich,  or  that  the  work  was  neat  and  exact ; 
but,  by  saying  it  was  "excessively"  pretty,  you  showed 
you  had  not  considered  what  it  was  that  you  admired 
m  it. 

Did  you  never  hear  of  the  man  who  said,  "There  will 
be  monstrous  few  apples  this  year ;  and  those  few  will  be 
mighty  little  ?  "  Poets  run  into  this  fault  when  they  use 
unmeaning  epithets,  instead  of  appropriate  description. 
Young  ladies,  too,  commit  the  same  fault  when,  in  writ- 
ing letters,  they  run  into  exaggerated  expressions  of 
friendship. 

You  have  admired,  in  the  painting  we  have  just  plir- 
chased,  the  variety  of  tints,  shaded  into  one  another. 
Well,  what  would  you  think  of  an  artist  who  should 
spread  one  deep  blue  over  all  the  sky,  and  one  deep 
green  over  the  grass  and  trees  ? 

Would  you  not  say  he  was  a  dauber,  and  made  near 
objects  and  distant  objects,  and  objects  in  the  sun  and 
objects  in  the  shade,  all  alike?  I  think  I  have  some  of 
your  early  performances,  in  which  you  have  painted  pic- 
tures pretty  much  in  this  style ;  but  you  would  not  paint 
so  now. 

Susan.     No,  indeed !     I  should  not. 

Mother.  Then  do  not  talk  so ;  do  not  paint  so  with 
words. 


DIALOGUE   LXXXVI. 

A  LrTTLE  TOO  SHARP. 

Scene  I. — Mr.  Smith  and  the  Chairman  of  the  Committee. 

Chairman.  Mr.  Smith,  are  you  the  owner  of  those 
lots  of  land  at  the  North  End  ? 

Smith.     I  am,  sir. 

Chairman.  Will  yo'i  sell  a  part  of  one  of  them,  say 
five  acres,  to  the  city  ? 


280  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Smith.     For  what  purpose  do  you  want  it  ? 

Chairman.  The  city  authorities  have  decided  to  pur- 
chase  a  lot  of  about  five  acres,  and  improve  it  as  a  kind 
of  park  or  public  promenade. 

Smith.  Ah,  indeed!  Well,  I  like  that  idea;  for  it 
shows  the  right  kind  of  public  spirit. 

Chairman.  We  have  also  decided  that  the  best  loca* 
tion  for  such  an  improvement  will  be  in  that  part  cf  the 

Smith.     That  is  my  opinion,  decidedly. 

Ghairm^an.  Will  you  sell  us  the  required  number  of 
acres  ? 

Smith.  That  will  depend  somewhat  upon  the  particu 
lar  spot  where  you  desire  to  locate  the  park. 

Chairman.  The  committee  are  instructed  to  negotiate 
for  what  lies  between  the  two  proposed  streets  running 
north  from  Main  street. 

Smith.  {Promptly.)  The  very  place  where  I  have 
decided  to  erect  four  rows  of  dwellings ! 

Chairman.  It  is  too  far  out  of  the  city  for  that,  is  it 
not? 

Smith.  0  no ;  not  a  rod  too  far.  The  city  is  rapidly 
growing  in  that  direction.  I  have  only  to  put  up  the 
dwellings  referred  to,  and  dozens  will  be  anxious  to  pur- 
chase lots  and  build  all  around  them.  Will  not  the 
ground  to  the  left  of  that  you  speak  of  do  as  well  ? 

Chairman.  We  were  directed  to  purchase  this  piece, 
if  we  could ;  and  we  do  not  feel  authorized  to  go  beyond 
our  instructions.  But,  if  you  are  not  willing  to  sell  it, 
we  will  waste  no  more  words  about  it.  {Chairman  rises 
to  leave.) 

Smith.  Stop  a  moment.  I  do  not  know  but  I  might 
be  persuaded  to  part  with  the  piece  you  want,  piovided  I 
could  get  what  it  is  worth. 

Chairman.  Very  well,  sir.  What  is  yoir  price 
for  it? 

Smith.  {After  hesitating  some  time)  I  must  have  a 
good  price. 

Chairman.  Certainly ;  we  are  willing  to  pay  what  is 
fair  and  right. 

Smith.  Of  course.  No  doubt  you  have  fixed  a  limit 
to  which  you  will  go. 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  281 

Chairman.  We  are  not  absolutely  restricted  in  that 
respect. 

Smith.     Are  you  prepared  to  make  an  offer  ? 

Chairman.  We  are  prepared  to  hear  your  price,  and 
report  thereon. 

Smith.     That's  a  very  valuable  lot  of  ground. 

Chairman.     {Impatiently.)    Will  you  name  your  price  ? 

Smith.  (After  thinking  a  while.)  One  thousand  dollars 
per  acre. 

Chairman.  We  should  not  feel  warranted  to  pay  such 
a  price  as  that.     Good  day,  sir. 

Scene  XL  —Mr.  Smith  alone. 

Smith.  I  am  afraid  the  committee  will  not  purchase 
jhe  land.  I  wish  I  had  been  a  little  easier  in  my  terms. 
I  would  rather  take  half  that  sum  than  not  sell  it,  for  I 
have  some  heavy  payments  to  make  in  a  few  weeks ;  and 
I  must  sell  some  land  to  meet  them. 

But  I  can  not  afford  to  furnish  a  beautiful  park  for  the 
city  for  nothing.  Besides,  I  think  they  will  finally  come 
up  to  my  price.  At  all  events  an  article  is  always  worth 
what  it  will  bring. 

(Enter  Mr.  Weston.) 

Weston.  I  hear  that  the  committee  had  the  subject  of 
a  public  square  under  consideration  again  this  morning. 

Smith.  {Much  delighted.)  Indeed!  1  hope  they  con- 
cluded to  buy  one. 

Weston.  Yes ;  and  I  also  heard  that  they  had  decided 
to  pay  the  extravagant  price  you  asked  for  a  lot  of 
ground  at  North  End. 

Smith.     A  thousand  dollars  an  acre  ? 

Weston.     Yes. 

Smith.  That  is  only  its  real  value,  and  not  a  cent 
more. 

Weston.  People  differ  about  that ;  however,  you  are 
lucky.     The  city  is  able  to  pay. 

Smith.  So  I  think ;  and  I  mean  it  shall  pay.  I  am 
half  inclined  to  increase  my  price.  That  is  a  beautiful 
spot ;  and  it  will  soon  be  in  the  most  business  part  of 
the  city. 

24* 


282  ENTER  PAINING  DIALOGUES. 

{Enter  Committee.) 

Chairman,  Well,  Mr.  Smitli,  we  have  concluded  to 
pay  you  your  price  for  the  land. 

Smith.  The  offer  is  no  longer  open ;  you  declined  it 
when  it  was  made.  My  price  for  that  property  is  now 
twelve  hundred  dollars  per  acre  I 

A  Member.  I  hardly  think  it  right,  Mr.  Smith,  for 
you  to  take  such  an  advantage.  This  park  is  for  the 
public  good. 

Smith.     Let  the  public  pay  for  it,  then ;  they  are  able. 

A  Member.  The  location  of  this  park  in  that  part  of 
the  city  will  greatly  enhance  the  value  of  your  other 
property  in  that  neighborhood. 

Smith.  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that.  I  have  some  very 
strong  doubts  on  that  point.  It  is  my  opinion  that  the 
buildings  I  intend  to  erect  will  be  far  more  to  my  ad- 
vantage. Be  that  as  it  may,  however,  I  am  determined 
not  to  sell  the  lot  for  any  thing  less  than  six  thousand 
dollars. 

Chairman.  We  are  not  authorized  to  pay  over  five 
thousand.  If  you  will  agree  to  take  that  sum,  we  will 
close  the  bargain  on  the  spot. 

Smith.  No,  sir ;  you  can  not  have  the  land  now  for 
less  than  twelve  hundred  dollars  an  acre. 

A  Member.  At  that  price,  we  may  understand,  then, 
that  you  will  sell  ? 

Smith.  Yes ;  and  that  is  the  lowest  cent.  I  am  not 
anxious  to  sell  even  at  that  price.  I  can  do  quite  as  well 
by  keeping  it  in  my  own  .possession ;  but,  as  it  will  ac- 
commodate the  public  so  well,  I  will  not  stand  in  the 
way.     When  will  the  committee  meet  again  ? 

Chairman.     Not  until  next  week. 

Smith.  Yery  well ;  but,  understand  me,  if  the  offer 
is  not  accepted  then,  it  no  longer  remains  open.  It  is  a 
matter  of  no  importance  to  me  which,  way  the  thing  goes. 

Scene  TIL — The  Committee  in  session. 

{Enter  Mr.  Jones.) 

Chairman.  Good  morning,  Mr.  Jones;  we  were  just 
consulting  about  the  propriety  of  paying  Mr.  Smith  six 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  288 

thousand  dollars  for  a  five-acre  lot  at  the  North  End. 
We  think  it  an  exorbitant  price ;  and  therefore  should 
not  be  justified  in  paying  it. 

Jones.  Six  thousand  dollars!-  Is  it  possible  that 
Smith  asks  six  thousand  dollars  for  the  lot?  I  can  hard- 
ly believe  it  I  Why,  I  would  give  the  city  a  lot  of  twice 
the  size,  and  do  it  with  pleasure. 

A  Member.     You  would  ? 

Jones.     Certainly  I  would. 

Chairman.     Are  you  really  in  earnest? 

Jon£s.  To  be "  sure  I  am.  Go  and  select  a  lot  for  a 
public  park  from  any  of  my  unappropriated  lands  on  the 
west  side  of  the  city,  and  J  will  pass  you  the  title  as  a 
free  gift  to-morrow ;  and  I  shall  feel  pleasure  in  doing  so. 

A  Member.     That  is  what  I  call  genuine  public  spirit. 

Jones.  Call  it  what  you  please.  I  am  happy  in  mak- 
ing the  offer;  and  T  will  cheerfully  assist  in  carrying  out 
a  suggestion  which  will  add  so  much  to  the  beauty  and 
health  of  the  city. 

Scene  IV. — Mr.  Wilson^  the  Cliairman  of  the  Committee^  reading  a 
neuospaper. 

{Enter  Mr.  Smith.) 

Wilson.  Ah,  friend  Smith,  how  are  you  this  pleasant 
evening? 

Smith.  Well,  I  thank  you.  What  news  do  you  get? 
for  I  see  you  are  reading  the  papers. 

Wilscm,.  Nothing  of  consequence.  All,  as  usual,  are 
complaining  of  scarcity  of  money  and  hard  times. 

Smith.  I  called  to  see  what  your  committee  con- 
cluded to  do  about  buying  that  lot  of  mine. 

Wilson.  We  have  concluded  to  do  nothing  further 
about  it. 

Smith.     Nothing,  did  you  say  ? 

Wilson.  Yes;  you  declined  our  offer,  or  rather  re- 
fused to  accept  the  high  price  you  first  asked  for  the  lot. 

Smitli.  You  refused  to  buy  it  at  five  thousand  dollars 
when  it  was  offered  for  that  sum. 

Wilson.  I  know  we  did;  because  we  thought  your 
demand  was  exorbitant. 

Smith.     Exorbitant!     Not  at  all  so. 


284  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Wilson.  In  that  we  only  differ  in  opinion.  However, 
tlie  committee  have  decided  not  to  pay  the  price  you  ask. 

Smith.     Unanimously? 

Wilson.  There  was  not  a  dissenting  voice ;  for  we  .all 
thought  it  quite  too  much. 

Smith.  Possibly  I  might  be  induced  to  take  some- 
thing less,  as  it  is  for  the  public  welfare. 

Wilson.     It  is  now  too  late,  sir. 

Smith.  Too  late  ?  How  so,  pray  ?  If  you  think  my 
price  too  high,  seeing  a  park  will  be  so  much  for  the  pub- 
lic good  and  an  ornament  to  the  city,  you  may  have  the 
lot  at  my  first  offer.  Or  I  will  leave  it  to  the  generosity 
of  the  committee  to  say  what  I  ought  to  have  for  it. 

Wilson.  We  could  not  parley  any  more  with  you ;  so 
we  procured  a  lot  in  another  part  of  the  city. 

Smith.     Mr.  Wilson !  I  am  surprised ! 

Wilson.  Yes ;  we  have  taken  one  of  Mr.  Jones'  lots, 
on  the  west  side  of  the  city.  It  is  a  most  beautiful  lot 
of  ten  acres! 

Smith.     {Much  surprised.)     You  have  ? 

Wilson.  We  have;  and  the  parties  are  now  making 
out  the  title-deed. 

Smith.  Why,  really,  I  never  was  more  astonished  in 
my  life  !  But  how  much  did  Jones  ask  for  that  beauti- 
ful lot,  as  3^ou  call  it  ? 

Wilson.  Nothing.  He  presented  it  to  the  city  as  a 
gift. 

Smith.     A  gift  I     What  consummate  folly ! 

Wilson.  No,  not  folly,  but  true  worldly  wisdom, 
though  I  believe  Jones  did  not  think  of  advantage  to 
himself  when  he  generously  made  the  offer.  He  is  worth 
twenty  thousand  dollars  more  to-day  than  he  was  yes- 
terday, simply  in  the  advanced  value  of  his  land  for 
building-lots ;  and  I  know  of  no  man  in  the  city  whose 
good  fortune  gives  me  more  pleasure. 

Smith.  What  a  fool  I  have  been,  in  not  accepting 
your  offer !  I  have  a  payment  of  four  thousand  dollars 
to  make  next  month,  on  a  mortgage  co  veering  that  very 
piece  of  ground  you  wanted  ;  and  I  have  no  other  means 
of  raising  the  money.  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do,  or 
how  to  avoid  a  failure. 

Wilson,     I  much  regret  your  unpleasant  position ;  but 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  285 

I  always  thought  it  better  to  accept  the  real  worth  of  a 
piece  of  property  when  offered,  than  to  try  to  obtain  an 
exorbitant  price  for  it  by  taking  advantage  of  the  neces- 
sities of  others. 

Smith.  I  agree  with  you  most  fully;  and  I  have 
learned  a  lesson  from  this  transaction  which,  I  trust,  will 
be  of  practical  benefit  to  me  through  life.     Good  eve- 


DIALOGUE    LXXXYII. 

NOTHING  IN  IT. 


Leech.  But  you  don't  laugh,  Coldstream  I  Come, 
man,  be  amused,  for  once  in  your  life.     You  don't  laugh. 

Sir  Charles.  0,  yes,  I  do.  You  mistake ;  I  laughed 
twice  distinctly — only,  the  fact  is,  I  am  bored  to  death. 

Leech.  Bored?  What !  after  such  a  feast  as  that  you 
have  given  us  ?  Look  at  me.  I  am  inspired.  I'm  a 
king  at  this  moment,  and  all  the  world  is  at  my  feet. 

Sir  C.  My  dear  Leech,  you  began  life  late.  You  are 
a  young  fellow — forty-five — and  have  the  world  yet  be- 
fore you.  I  started  at  thirteen,  lived  quick,  and  ex- 
hausted the  whole  round  of  pleasure  before  I  was  thirty. 
I've  tried  every  thing ;  and  here  I  am,  a  man  of  thirty- 
three,  literally  used  up — completely  hlasL 

Leech.  Nonsense,  man !  Used  up,  indeed  !  with  youi 
wealth,  with  your  twenty  estates  of  the  sunniest  spots  in 
England — not  to  mention  that  Utopia  within  four  walls, 
in  the  Rue  de  Provence^  in  Paris. 

Sir  C.     I'm  dead  with  ennui. 

Leech.     Ennui !  poor  Croesus. 

Sir  G.  Croesus  ! — no,  I'm  no  Croesus.  My  father — 
you've  seen  his  portrait,  good  old  fellow ! — he  certainly 
did  leave  me  a  little  matter  of  twelve  thousand  pounds 
a  year  ;  but,  after  all 

Jjecch.     0,  come ! 

Sir  G.     O,  I  don't  complain  of  it. 

Leech     I  should  think  not. 

Sir  G.  0,  no  ;  there  are  some  people  who  can  manage 
to  do  on  less — on  credit. 


286  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Leech.  I  know  several.  My  dear  Coldstream,  yoii 
should  try  change  of  scene. 

Sir  G.     I  have  tried  it.     What's  the  use  ? 

Leech.     But  I'd  gallop  all  over  Europe. 

Sir  C     I  have.     There's  nothing  in  it. 

Ijcech.     Nothing  in  all  Europe  ? 

Sir  0.  Nothing !  0,  dear,  yes.  I  remember,  at  one 
time,  I  did  somehow  go  about  a  good  deal. 

Leech.     You  should  go  to  Switzerland. 

Sir  G.  I  have  been.  Nothing  there — people  say  so 
much  about  every  thing.  There  certainly  were  a  few 
glaciers,  some  monks,  and  large  dogs,  and  thick  ankles, 
and  bad  wine,  and  Mont  Blanc ;  yes,  and  there  was  ice 
on  the  top,  too ;  but  I  prefer  the  ice  at  Gunter's — less 
trouble,  and  more  in  it. 

Leech.  Then,  if  Switzerland  wouldn't  do,  I'd  try 
Italy. 

Sir  C.  My  dear  Leech,  I've  tried  it  over  and  over 
again — and  what  then  ? 

Leech.     Did  not  Eome  inspire  you  ? 

Sir  G  0,  believe  me,  Tom,  a  most  horrible  hole. 
People  talk  so  much  about  these  things!  There's  the 
Coliseum,  now — round,  very  round — a  goodish  ruin 
enough ;  but  I  was  disappointed  with  it.  Capitol — tol- 
erably high ;  and  St.  Peter's — marble,  and  mosaics,  and 
fountains — dome  certainly  not  badly  scooped — but  there 
wa&^othing  in  it. 

Leech.  Come,  Coldstream,  you  must  admit  we  have 
nothing  like  St.  Peter's  in  London. 

Sir  G.  No,  because  we  don't  want  it;  but,  if  we  want- 
ed such  a  thing,  of  course  we  should  have  it.  A  dozen 
gentlemen  meet,  pass  resolutions,  institute,  and  in  twelve 
months  it  would  be  run  up ;  nay,  if  that  were  all,  we'd 
buy  St.  Peter's  itself,  and  have  it  sent  over. 

Tjeech.  Ha,  ha  !  well  said — you're  quite  right.  What 
say  you  to  beautiful  Naples  ? 

Sir  G.  Not  bad — excellent  watermelons,  and  goodish 
opera.  They  took  me  up  Vesuvius — a  horrid  bore  !  It 
smoked  a  good  deal,  certainly ;  but  altogether  a  wretched 
mountain — saw  the  crater — looked  down — but  there  was 
nothing  in  it. 

Leech.     But  the  bav  ? 


EXTERTAININQ  DIALOGUES.  287 

Sir  C.     Inferior  to  Dublin. 

Leech.     The  Campagna  ? 

Sir  0.     A  swamp. 

Leech.     Greece  ? 

Sir  Q.     A  morass. 

Leech.     Athens  ? 

Sir  G.     A  bad  Edinburgh. 

Leech.     Egypt  ? 

Sir  C.     A  desert 

Leech.     The  pyramids  ? 

Sir  G.  Humbugs! — nothing  in  any  of  them.  You 
bore  me.  Is  it  possible  that  you  can  not  invent  some- 
thing that  would  make  my  blood  boil  in  my  veins,  my 
hair  stand  on  end,  my  heart  beat,  my  pulse  rise ;  that 
would  produce  an  excitement,  an  emotion,  a  sensation,  a 
palpitation  ?     But  no ! 

Leech.     I've  an  ideal 

Sir  G.     You?     What  is  it? 

Jjcech.     Marry ! 

Sir  G.     Hum  I — well,  not  bad.     There's  novelty  about 

the  notion  ;  it  never  did  strike  me  to O,  but  no  ; 

I  should  be  bored  with  the  exertion  of  choosing.  If  a 
wife,  now,  could  be  had  like  a  dinner— for  ordering ! 

Leech.  She  can,  by  you.  Take  the  first  woman  that 
comes;  on  my  life,  she'll  not  refuse  twelve  thousand 
pounds  a  year. 

Sir  G.  Come,  I  don't  dislike  the  project ;  I  almost 
feel  something  like  a  sensation  coming.  I  haven't  felt 
so  excited  for  some  time ;  it's  a  novel  enjoyment — a  sur- 
prise.    I'll  try  it. 


DIALOGUE    LXXXCIIl. 

A  COLLOaUY  ON  HISTORY. 

(Mary  enters  in  a  great  hurry,  history -hooJc  in  hand."" 

Evie.     What's  your  hurry,  Mary?     Come,  sit  down 
with  us  a  few  minutes. 

Mary.     Don't  stop  me,  now. 
Alice.     Why,  what's  the  matter  ? 


288  ENTERTAINING    DIALOGUES. 

Jennie.  It  is  something  uncommon  for  you,  Mary, 
to  be  in  such  a  hurry. 

Mary.  That  may  be ;  but  I  have  a  long  and  difficult 
history  lesson  to  learn  to-night. 

Louisa.     Well,  well,  sit  down  and  tell  us  aboiy^  it. . 

Anna.  Why,  it's  a  review,  and  I  didn't  think  it  very 
hard. 

Mary.  But  I  find  it  so  difficult  to  remember  about 
those  invasions  of  the  Danes,  and  the  times  in  which 
they  occurred  previous  to  Egbert's  uniting  the  seven 
kingdoms  of  the  heptarchy  in  one,  under  the  name  of 
England. 

Alice.  That  didn't  trouble  me  as  learning  the  names 
of  those  first  kings,  from  Egbert  to  the  Norman  conquest 
in  1066,  when  William  the  Conqueror  ascended  the 
throne. 

Evie.  It  is  very  fortunate  for  the  English  that  all 
these  sovereigns  were  not  as  despotic  as  William  the 
Conqueror. 

Anna.  How  cruel  some  of  his  acts  were :  for  instance 
his  treatment  of  the  English. 

Louisa.  Only  to  think  of  his  driving  the  inhabitants 
of  thirty  villages  from  their  homes. 

Jennie.  Yes,  and  converting  those  homes  into  a  vast 
forest,  in  which  to  hunt,  just  for  his  own  gratification. 

Louisa.  Wasn't  it  William  the  Conqueror  that  intro- 
duced the  pernicious  feudal  system. 

Jennie.  Yes  ;  but  that  was  not  more  unjust  than  the 
exchange  of  trial  by  jury  for  the  barbarous  one  of  single 
combat. 

Mary.  It  is  true  William  had  his  failings ;  but  he  per- 
formed some  useful  arts,  one  of  which  was  the  compiling 
of  the  Doomsday -book,  which  contained  a  registry  of  all 
the  estates  in  the  kingdom. 

Anna.  After  William's  death  what  a  long  and  con- 
stant succession  of  contests  for  the  throne  of  England 
arose. 

Alice.  I  am  a  little  anxious  to  know  how  the  ladies 
employed  themselves  during  these  stormy  times. 

Evie.  While  they  were  not  employed  in  attending  the 
wounded  soldiers,  they  were  accustomed  to  employ  them- 
selves with  various  kinds  of  needle-work,  and  cookery, 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  289 

and  often  sat  surrounded  by  their  damsels,  setting  them 
tasks,  similar  to  the  mantua-makers  and  milliners  of  the 
present  day. 

Mary.  This  might  serve,  I  think,  as  an  example  to 
some  of  the  6lite  of  modern  days. 

Jennie.  So  it  strikes  me ;  but  how  funny  one  of  our 
a  la  mode  matrons  would  look  cutting  and  dividing  work 
for  her  fashionable  daughters ;  and  they,  with  their  jew- 
eled, dainty  fingers,  making  their  own  clothing. 

Louisa.  The  ladies  and  gentlemen  could  not  have 
spent  much  time  in  reading  and  study,  else  Henry  the 
First  would  not  have  been  surnamed  the  Scholar  merely 
because  he  could  write  his  own  name. 

Anna.  It  seems  that  this  fashion  of  ladies  doing  their 
own  work  began  gradually  to  decline ;  for  a  cotemporary 
of  Richard  tells  us  that  they  were  accustomed  to  hire  sew- 
ing-women. 

Anna.  You  refer  to  Richard  the  Lion-Hearted,  do  you 
not? 

Anna.  Yes;  the  same  one  whose  famous  exploits 
with  the  infidel  Saracens  made  him  so  renowned. 

Evie,  How  different  was  Richard's  reign  and  charac- 
ter from  that  of  his  brother  John's :  the  former  was 
courageous,  active,  and  brave — the  latter  weak  and  im- 
becile. 

Jennie.  His  son  too,  Henry  the  Third,  was  just  like 
his  father ;  and  still,  more  good,  perhaps,  resulted  from 
their  inglorious  reigns,  than  from  those  of  any  other  two 
monarchs  that  ever  occupied  the  throne  of  England.  For 
the  incapacity  of  John  was  the  means  of  his  granting 
the  famous  Magna  Charter,  and  the  people,  finding  Henry 
was  too  weak  to  make  any  resistance,  took  the  power 
into  their  own  hands,  and  this  established  the  House  of 
Commons  in  1265. 

Louisa.  But  the  character  of  Henry  was  redeemed  by 
hifl  son,  who  was  a  king  of  great  activity  and  beauty, 
and  whose  reign  was  productive  of  much  good  to  the 
people  of  England. 

Jennie.     He  ought  to  have  been  smart,  for  he  was  sur- 
named Long-Shanks,  and  the  gtrides  which  he  took  in 
walking  corresponded  to  the  steps  with  which  he  raised 
Ji4gland  from  her  former  degraded  level. 
'      -  ■  25 


290  ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES. 

Alice.     I  admire  Edward  the  Third  most  of  any  of  the 

English  sovereigns. 

Mary.  Perhaps  jou  admire  his  son  quite  as  much  as 
his  father. 

Alice.  Indeed  I  do.  I  think  there  wab  Qever  a  Prince 
so  worthy  to  be  loved,  respected,  and  admired  as  Ed- 
"v^ard  the  Black  Prince — distinguished  for  so  much 
bravery,  or  esteemed  for  so  many  good  qualities. 

Mary.  Yes,  he  was  handsome  as  well  as  brave.  But 
wJiat  a  glorious  "victory  that  was  which  was  gained  at 
Cressy  ? 

Alice.  It  was,  indeed ;  and  the  valorous  acts  of  Ed- 
ward and  his  son  will  forever  remain  enshrined  in  the 
hearts  of  the  nation. 

Evie.  I  often  wished  I  had  lived  during  this  reign ; 
for  it  was  at  this  time  that  chivalry  was  at  its  hight  in 
England,  and  it  always  seemed  that  this  mode  of  life 
would  exactly  suit  my  disposition. 

Anyia.  It  seems  a  great  misfortune  that  Edward  the 
Black  Prince  should  have  died  so  young ;  not  oniy  on 
account  of  his  many  virtues  and  heroism,  but  because 
it  involved  the  country  in  such  long  and  sanguinary 
wars  regarding  the  succession  between  the  Houses  of 
York  and  Lancaster. 

Evie.  Now,  in  your  honest  opinion,  Mary,  which  do 
you  think  had  the  best  right  to  the  crown  ? 

Mary.  The  House  of  York.  It  always  seemed  to  me, 
before  I  knew  the  real  point  of  claim,  that  theirs  was  the 
most  just.  The  symbol  which  they  adopted,  that  of  a 
white  rose,  seemed  so  pure,  while  the  red  one  of  the 
Lancastrians  seemed  symbolical  of  their  determination  to 
gain  the  throne  by  blood. 

Louisa.  Let  me  see ;  these  wars  lasted  about  thirty 
years,  didn't  they — and  wern't  they  finally  terminated  by 
the  accession  of  Henry  the  Seventh  ? 

Jennie,  Why,  yes ;  don't  you  remember  he  was  a 
Lancastrian,  and  so  he  married  Elizabeth,  who  was  one 
of  the  House  of  York,  and  thus  these  two  families  were 
united. 

Alice.  It  was  about  this  time  that  the  kings  began  to 
think  more  of  the  English  navy.     You  know  Henry  the 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  291 

Sevcntli  spent  £14,000  in  building  one  ship,  which  he 
styled  the  Great  Harry. 

Evie.  Well,  it  was  about  the  only  good  he  did  accom- 
plish ;  for  he  was  so  avaricious  that  he  would  not  spend 
money  for  the  public  good,  but  hoarded  it,  as  is  quite 
common  nowadays,  for  reckless  sons  to  squander. 

Anna  His  son,  Henry  the  Eighth,  was  exactly  the 
reverse  of  his  father ;  for,  by  his  expensive  pleasures  and 
ill-managed  wars,  he  soon  wasted  the  riches  left  by  his 
father. 

Jennie.  It  was  always  a  mystery  to  me  how  Henry 
the  Eighth  ever  got  so  many  wives.  I  am  sure  the 
crown  must  have  had  great  attractions,  to  have  induced 
so  many  to  thus  connect  themselves  with  such  an  ungrate- 
ful and  unfeeling  monarch. 

Mary.  Still,  many,  and  women  of  merit,  did  marry 
him ;  for  instance,  Catharine  of  Aragon,  a  woman  dis- 
tinguished for  her  virtues. 

Louisa.  I  don't  think  it  strange  that  she  should  have 
married  him,  for  his  character  was  then  not  fully  known. 

Mary.  He  was  quite  handsome,  and  personal  appear- 
ances are  always  attractive.  I  don't  wonder  that  others 
married  him,  even  after  his  cruel  treatment  of  former 
wives. 

Alice.  Now,  you  don't  really  think  so,  do  you, 
Mary  ? 

Mary.     Indeed  I  do,  Alice. 

Evie.  I  suppose  they  didn't  think  he  would  treat 
them  so.  Each  fancied  that  her  power  over  him  would 
be  permanent,  and  that  she  would  thus  escape  the  fhte 
of  her  predecessor. 

Alice.  I  do  dislike  to  hear  any  one  take  part  with 
Henry  the  Eighth ;  for  I  think  he  deserved  hanging  as 
much  as  any  of  his  wives. 

Mary.  I  think  Henry's  character  was  not  so  much  to 
be  despised  as  some  of  the  present  day,  who  do  not,  per- 
haps, behead  or  kill  them  outright,  but  by  their  neglect 
and  infidelity  strike  a  dagger  to  their  hearts,  from  which 
they  never  recover.  Now,  suppose,  Alice,  he  had  asked 
you  to  share  the  crown  with  him  and  enjoy  all  the  ad- 
vantages arising  therefrom,  wouldn't  you  have  accepted  ? 

Alia'.     I  would  have  given  him  a  similar  answer  to 


292  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

that  of  a  lady  to  wkom  lie  proposed  the  same  question . 
"If  I  had  two  heads  I  might  accept ;  but  as  I  have  but 
one  I  prefer  keeping  it." 

Evie.  But  still,  Alice,  you  must  acknowledge  that  the 
crown  offers  some  very  great  attractions ;  for  instance, 
occupying  a  position  where  you  would  receive  the  hom- 
age of  the  whole  nation.  This,  with  some,  would  com- 
pensate for  all  the  faults  in  their  husbands. 

Alice.     And  for  having  your  head  cut  off,  perhaps. 

Evie.     He  probably  wouldn't  have  taken  mine. 

Louisa.  Seems  to  me  we  are  extemporizing  consider- 
ably ;  coming  back  to  sober  things,  I  think  he  did  a  great 
deal  of  good  by  the  Keformation. 

Anna.  But  that  was  without  any  good  intention  on 
his  part.  The  pope  refusing  to  grant  him  a  divorce  from 
Catharine  of  Aragon,  Henry  became  displeased,  and, 
withdrawing  himself  from  the  Eomish  Church,  declared 
himself  supreme  head  of  the  Church  of  England,  in 
1584. 

Jennie.  After  his  son  Edward's  death,  how  many  dis- 
putes and  troubles  there  were  concerning  the  succession. 

Mary.  There  were,  indeed ;  but  Mary,  eldest  daughter 
of  Henry,  finally  triumphed,  and  commenced  her  bloody 
reign  by  burning  at  the  stake  several  learned  divines — 
Cranuier,  Latimer,  and  John  Eogers. 

Evi^.:  I  think  her  character  was  much  more  detestable 
than  that  of  her  father ;  for,  being  a  woman,  she  ought 
to  have  been  more  beautiful  and  feminine  in  spirit. 

Mary.  There  was  hardly  ever  a  sovereign  whose 
death  caused  so  much  rejoicing  as  that  of  Bloody  Mary; 
scarcely  had  the  breath  departed  from  her  body,  when 
the  members  of  parliament  proceeded  to  Hatfield,  where 
Elizabeth,  her  youngest  sister,  was  then  residing,  and 
escorted  her  in  triumph  to  London. 

Louisa.  The  London  citizens  could  hardly  restrain 
their  joy :  they  rang  the  bells,  lighted  bonfires,  and 
drank  health  to  Queen  Elizabeth. 

Anna.  It  is  not  strange,  after  all  the  sufferings  they 
had  endured  from  Mary,  that  they  should  thus  welcome 
a  Protestant  queen.  Her  personal  appearance  too  was 
calculated  to  inspire  her  subjects  with  love  and  re- 
spect. 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  298 

Alice.  But  ho\i  proud  she  was,  and  fond  of  flattery. 
Still,  those  kre  no  very  remarkable  traits  in  an  old 
maid. 

Anna.  How  set,  too,  in  her  ways ;  she  would  never 
marry,  for  fear  her  husband  would  have  more  power  over 
the  nation  than  herself 

Jennie.  And,  to  show  her  selfish  disposition,  she  tried 
to  prevent  others  from  marrying. 

Evie.  She  aspired  to  the  reputation  of  a  wit,  on  one 
occasion.  Philip  of  Spain  sent  an  embassador  by  the 
name  of  Gus-man  to  Elizabeth,  and  she  in  return  sent 
Dr.  Man,  who  conducted  the  affair  with  which  he  had 
been  intrusted  so  badly  that  the  queen  thought  of  pun- 
ishing him ;  but,  happening  to  remark  to  one  of  her  court- 
iers that  Philip  had  sent  a  goose-man  to  her  but  she  had 
sent  a  man-goose  to  him,  her  supposed  wit  pleased  her 
so  much  that  she  let  the  matter  pass,  and  Dr.  Man  es- 
caped. 

Alice.  She  was  ridiculously  vain ;  and  to  call  her 
crooked  was  bad  enough,  but  to  call  her  old  was  still 
worse.  So  great  was  her  dread  of  being  thought  aged 
that  she  contrived,  when  nearly  seventy,  tQ  be  surprised 
by  the  French  embassador  in  the  act  of  dancing  to  the 
music  of  a  little  fiddle  upon  which  she  played. 

3fary.  She  has  been  charged  with  treachery  and 
cruelty  in  her  treatment  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots. 

Louisa.     And  justly,  too,  I  think. 

Anna.  What  reason  could  she  have  had  for  her  cruel 
treatment  of  Mary  ? 

Jennie.     It  was  jealousy  more  than  any  thing  else. 

Mary.  But  still,  Mary  assumed  the  title  of  Queen  of 
England,  and,  had  she  not  been  checked,  would  have, 
undoubtedly,  usurped  the  throne. 

Alice.  But  it  seems  so  cruel  to  have  confined  such  a 
beautiful  woman  in  those  gloomy  castles,  depriving  her 
of  those  pleasures  of  which  she  was  so  fond. 

Buie.  Her  beauty  and  misfortunes  seem  to  have 
thrown  a  veil  over  tne  defects  in  her  character  in  your 
eyes  as  well  as  in  those  of  many  others. 

Jjouisa.  After  a  life  of  sorrows  and  misfortunes,  she 
was  finally  beheaded  by  the  cruel  order  of  Elizabeth. 

Jennie,     Notwithstanding    her   enmity   toward  Mary 

25* 


294  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Queen  of  Scots,  at  her  death  she  nominated  her  son  foi 
her  successor. 

Alice.  That  she  could  not  very  well  help;  for  had  she 
done  otherwise  there  would  certainly  have  been  civil 
war. 

Mary.  What  a  detestable  character  James  was.  I 
think  he  well  deserved  the  appellation  given  him  by 
Bishop  Burnet,  that  of  being  the  wisest  fool  in  Europe. 

Anna.  It  is  fortunate  for  us  that  James  was  such  an 
arbitrary  monarch ;  for,  had  it  not  been  for  his  cruel  per- 
secutions, the  Puritans  might  never  have  come  to  this 
country. 

Evie.  Some  very  useful  acts  were  accomplished  during 
his  reign,  one  of  which  was  the  translation  of  the  Bible ; 
and  it  is  a  pity  that  both  he  and  his  son  Charles  the  First 
did  not  adhere  better  to  the  principles  contained  therein. 

Jennie.  For  had  they  done  so  perhaps  Charles  would 
not  have  lost  his  head. 

Louisa.  I  think  the  people  of  England  ought  to  be 
forever  grateful  to  Cromwell  for  his  interposition  and 
dethronement  of  Charles  the  First. 

Alice,  Notwithstanding  he  has  been  universally  cen- 
sured by  the  English  people,  and  others,  I  think  ha 
deserves  great  merit  for  awakening  a  spirit  of  republican 
liberty  among  the  people. 

Mary.  What  a  curious  set  those  sovereigns  of  the 
House  of  Stuart  were — so  arbitrary  in  their  principles — 
not  ovl\j  Charles  and  James  the  First,  but  Charles  and 
James  the  Second. 

Anna.  Was  it  during  the  reign  of  James  the  Third 
that  the  glorious  revolution  of  1688  took  place? 

Evie.  Yes ;  at  the  time  when  William  and  Mary  as- 
cended the  throne.  Theirs  was  a  short  reign  ;  but  how 
much  poor  Mary  did  suffer  from  her  stern  and  passionate 
husband. 

Louisa.  So  she  did  :  but  not  so  much  as  the  Princess 
Annie,  the  sister  of  Mary,  afterward  Queen  of  England. 
Which  do  you  like  best,  Jennie,  Queen  Annie  or  Eliza- 
beth? 

Jennie.  Annie,  decidedly ;  she  was  so  gentle  and 
amiable,  so  kind  and  affectionate. 

Mary.     Yes;  but   her  gentleness   and  timidity   were 


EN'IERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  296 

more  on  account  of  her  love  of  ease ;  and,  for  my  part, 
I  admire  rather  the  ruling,  queenly  Elizabeth  rather  than 
the  indiscreet,  lazy  Annie,  whose  ministers  took  care  of 
1  he  government  while  she  reclined  at  home. 

Anna.     Elizabeth,  also,  encouraged  literature. 

Louisa.  So  did  Annie  encourage  science ;  and  hers  as 
well  as  Elizabeth's  reign  has  been  styled  the  August  an 
age  of  England. 

Uvie.     How  curiously  they  dressed  at  this  period. 

Alice.  One  of  the  greatest  novelties  introduced  by 
Queen  Annie  were  hoops;  and  it  is  related  of  some 
country  ladies,  as  a  proof  that  they  were  unfashionable, 
that  they  could  actually  walk  through  a  moderately-sized 
doorway  without  inconvenience. 

JSvie.  How  singular  it  is  that  all  those  old  styles  come 
into  fashion  again. 

Jennie.  The  ladies  seem  to  have  retained  these  fash- 
ions a  long  time ;  for  in  the  reign  of  George  the  Third 
thev  wore  them,  and  also  laced  tight,  so  that  their  heads 
and  shoulders  looked  as  if  they  were  rising  out  of  a  tub. 

JEvie.     George  the  Third That's  the  one  that  made 

war  with  the  American  colonies,  wasn't  it  ? 

Mary.  Yes,  and  became  crazy,  poor  fellow,  because 
he  lost  them. 

Anna.  We  have  spoken  thus  far  only  about  the  ladies, 
and  said  nothing  about  the  gentlemen.  For  my  part  I 
think  their  fashions  were  quite  as  ridiculous. 

Louisa.  Yes,  indeed,  they  were ;  they  were  accus- 
tomed to  wear  their  hair  very  long ;  and  one  of  their 
ministers,  being  very  much  displeased  at  this  mode, 
preached  a  long  sermon  against  it  one  Sabbath,  and  afler 
awakening  their  feelings  upon  the  subject,  on  the  impulse 
of  the  moment,  drew  a  large  pair  of  shears  from  his 
pocket  and  sheared  the  whole  flock. 

Alice.  I  think  none  of  the  queens  of  England  are  to 
be  compared  with  their  present  sovereign.  Queen  Victoria. 

Jennie.     So  do  I,  Alice. 

Uvie.  Her  reign  thus  far  has  been  more  successful  and 
prosperous  than  any  preceding  one. 

All.     God  save  the  Queen. 


296  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

DIALOGUE    LXXXIX, 

THE  MAN  AND  THE  MONEY. 

Characters. — M.is.  Leech;  Julia,  her  daughter ,  Mary,  her  niece; 
Uncle  Nathan,  an  East  Indiaman.  Scenz. — Mrs.  Leech  and 
Mary  seated  ;  Julia  impatiently  walking  the  stage. 

Julia.  I  do  wish  Uncle  Nathan  would  come,  if  he  is 
coining.  I  suppose  he  is  a  great  bear — a  sort  of  half- 
civilized  monster. 

Mrs.  Leech.  But  you  must  be  very  gentle  with  him, 
Julia ;  for  he  is  very  rich,  and  I  have  no  doubt  he  will 
leave  all  his  money  to  one  of  you.  You  know  he  said 
in  his  letter  he  should  give  it  to  the  one  he  liked  best. 

Julia.  0,  I  shall  be  as  loving  as  a  kitten,  mother.  I 
know  how  to  manage  such  an  old  bear  as  he  is. 

Mary.  How  can  you  apply  such  names  to  your 
uncle,  Julia?  You  shock  me.  Eemember,  he  was  your 
father's  brother. 

Julia.  Those  who  have  seen  him  say  he  is  very  rude 
and  rough. 

Mary.  But  they  also  say  he  is  kind-hearted  and  gen- 
erous.    I  am  sure  I  shall  love  him  very  much. 

Julia.  Of  course  you  will ;  so  shall  I,  for  I  want  his 
fortune. 

Mary.  I  don't  care  so  much  for  his  fortune.  I  like 
his  character. 

Julia.  Pooh  !  I  don't  care  for  his  character.  If  he 
will  leave  me  his  fortune,  you  may  have  the  rest. 

Mary.  Do  you  mean  to  be  a  hypocrite,  and  treat  him 
well  when  you  care  nothing  at  all  about  him  ? 

Julia.  I  shall  love  him  to  distraction.  I  shall  be  his 
slave. 

Mary.  I  shall  not.  I  shall  treat  him  just  as  I  should 
if  he  was  a  poor  man.  I  think  of  the  man,  and  not  of 
the  money. 

Julia.  You  are  welcome  to  your  notions.  I  am  going 
to  get  the  fortune,  if  I  can ;  and  I  am  willing  to  work 
for  it. 

Mrs.  L.  That  is  right,  Julia ;  you  be  very  attentive 
to  him,  and  he  will  make  you  as  rich  as  a  princess. 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOCJUES.  297 

tfulicu  That  I  shall.  I  wish  he  would  come;  and, 
though  he  is  a  bear,  I  will  treat  him  as  Beauty  did  the 
Beast. 

Mrs.  L.  Here  he  comes.  Smooth  down  your  hair, 
Julia. 

{Enter  Uncle  Nathan,  with  hat  and  coat  on.     Mrs.  L.  and  Julia 
rush  to  meet  him  ;  Mary  keeps  her  seat.) 

Julia.  {Grasping  both  his  hands.)  My  cfear  uncle  I  I 
am  delighted  to  see  you  ! 

Uiicle  N.  Are  you  ?  That  is  hearty.  How  do  you 
do,  sister? 

Mrs.  L.  {Taking  his  hand.)  I  am  glad  you  have  come. 
You  are  welcome. 

Uncle  K  Thank  you,  ma'am.  But  who  is  this  other 
little  puss  ? 

Mary.  I  am  Mary  Wade.  I  hope  you  are  well, 
uncle. 

Uncle  K     {Taking  her  hand.)     Hearty  as  a  buck. 

Julia.  Take  a  chair,  uncle.  Do  rest  yourself.  You 
must  be  very  tired.     {Offers  him  a  chair.) 

Uncle  N.  {Seats  himself.)  Thank  ye.  My  feet  are 
sore.     My  boots  hurt  me. 

Julia.  Let  me  pull  them  off  for  you.  {Kneels^  and 
takes  hold  of  his  boot.) 

Uncle  N..    No,  no,  girl ;  that's  the  servant's  work. 

Mary.     How  foolish  you  are !     I  will  get  the  bootjack. 

Uncle  N.     Never  mind ;  I  can  get  them  off. 

Julia.  Poor,  dear  uncle.  I  hope  it  hasn't  hurt  you 
much. 

Uncle  N.  Eh  ?  {Looking  sharp  at  her.  Aside.)  Poor, 
dear  uncle!  If  I  was  poor,  that  girl  wouldn't  love  me 
half  so  much. 

Julia.  Let  me  get  you  some  refreshment,  dear  uncle. 
Will  you  have  a  glass  of  water,  a  cup  of  tea  or  coffee? 

Uncle  N.     No,  nothing  of  the  sort. 

Julia.     Let  me  help  you  take  off  your  coat. 

Uncle  N.     No,  you  needn't. 

Julia.  Can't  I  do  any  thing  for  you,  dear  uncle — any 
thing  to  show  you  how  much  I  love  you  and  how  glad 
I  am  to  see  you  ? 


298  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

[fncle  N.  Nothing  just  yet.  By  and  by  you  may; 
for  I  expect  to  be  sick  about  to-morrow  or  next 
day. 

Julia.     O,  I  hope  not. 

Mrs.  L.     I  hope  not. 

Julia.  But,  if  you  are,  I  will  watch  by  you  night  and 
day,  and  not  leave  you  for  a  minute.  I  will  be  the  most 
faithful  and  patient  nurse  in  the  world. 

Uncle  N.     Will  you,  you  little  puss  ? 

Julia.     Certainly,  I  will. 

Uncle  N.  I  suppose  you  would  let  me  die — wouldn't 
you,  Mary? 

Mary.     I  should  endeavor  to  do  my  duty. 

Mrs.  L.  Why  do  you  say  you  shall  be  sick,  brother 
Nathan  ? 

UncU  N.     I  know  I  shall  be. 

Julia..     Why,  dearest  uncle  ? 

Uncle  N.     I  have  good  reasons. 

Julia.     Do  you  feel  sick  now  ? 

Uncle  N.  I  do ;  I  have  a  dreadful  pain  in  the  small 
of  my  back,  and  my  head  aches  as  though  it  would  split 
open. 

Julia.  Poor,  dear  uncle.  Pray  let  me  do  something 
for  you. 

( Uncle  Nathan  rubs  his  back,  and  seems  to  be  suffering  severe  pain.) 

Uncle  N.  {Groaning.)  The  fact  is,  ma'am,  I  have  got 
the  small-pox !  I  was  exposed  to  the  disease  on  board 
the  ship. 

Julia.     O  !     (Screams^  and  rushes  off.) 

Mrs.  L.  Mercy  !  The  small-pox  I  We  shall  all  catch 
it.     (Rushes  off.) 

Mary.  I  think  you  had  better  go  to  bed,  uncle,  and 
have  something  done  for  you. 

Uncle  N.     Who  will  take  care  of  me? 

Mary.     I  will. 

Uncle  N.     Did  you  ever  have  the  disease  ? 

Mary.     No,  sir. 

Uncle  N.     You  may  catch  it. 

Mary.     I  will  do  my  duty,  even  if  I  do. 

Uncle  N.     {Jumping  up  and  taking  her  hind.)     Ah! 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  299 

Mary,  you  are  the  true  woman !  There  is  my  hand,  and 
my  fortune  shall  go  with  it. 

Mary.     But,  uncle,  the  small-pox  is 

Uncle  N.  Ha  I  ha !  ha  I  Plow  quick  they  ran  when 
I  said  small-pox !  Fair-weather  friends  are  not  the  ones 
for  me,  or  for  my  money. 

Mary.     But  haven't  you  got  the  small-pox,  uncle? 

Uncle  N.  No  more  than  you  have.  I  was  a  little  sus- 
picious of  Miss  Julia's  devotion.  I  thought  I  would  try 
It.  She  has  been  weighed,  and  found  wanting.  Now, 
Mary,  let  me  tell  you  never  to  bow  too  low  to  a  rich 
man,  unless  he  is  a  fool. 

Mary.  I  never  mean  to  do  so  I  look  at  the  man, 
and  not  the  money. 


DIALOGUE    XC. 

THE  SCHOOLMASTER  AND  SCHOOL  COMMITTEE. 

Scene. — A  public  house^  in  the  town  of .     Enter  Schoolmastkk, 

with  a  pack  on  his  hack. 

Schoolmaster.  How  fare  you,  landlord  ?  What  have 
you  got  that's  good  to  drink  ? 

Landlord.  I  have  gin,  West  India,  genuine  New 
England,  whiskey,  and  cider-brandy. 

Master.  Make  us  a  stiff  mug  of  sling.  Put  in  a  gill 
and  a  half  of  your  New  England,  and  sweeten  it  well 
with  'lasses. 

Land.     It  shall  be  done,  sir,  to  your  liking. 

Master.  Do  you  know  of  any  vacancy  in  a  school  in 
your  part  of  the  country,  landlord  ? 

fjand.  There  is  a  vacancy  in  our  district ;  and  I  ex* 
pect  the  parson,  with  our  three  school  committee-men, 
will  be  at  my  house  directly,  to  consult  on  matters  rela- 
tive to  the  school. 

Master.  Well,  here's  the  lad  that  will  serve  them  as 
cheap  as  any  man  in  America ;  and  I  believe  I  may  ven- 
ture to  say  as  well  too ;  for  I  profess  no  small  share  of 
skill  in  that  business.  I  have  kept  school  eleven  winters, 
and  have  often  had  a  matter  of  fifty  scholars  at  a  time. 


300  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

I  Lave  teached  a  child  its  letters  in  a  day,  and  to  read  m 
the  Psalter  in  a  fortnight :  and  I  always  feel  very  much 
ashamed  if  I  use  more  than  one  quire  of  paper  in  larnin' 
a  boy  to  write  as  well  as  his  master.  As  for  government, 
I'll  turn  my  back  to  no  man.  I  never  flog  my  scholars : 
for  that  monstrous  doctrine  of  whippin'  children,  which 
has  been  so  long  preached  and  practiced  by  our  rigid  and 
Fuperstitious  forefathers,  I  have  long  since  exploded  I 
have  a  rare  knack  of  flattering  them  into  their  duty. 
And  this,  according  to  a  celebrated  doctor  at  Philadel 
phia,  whose  works  I  have  heard  of,  though  I  never  read 
them,  is  the  grand  criterion  of  school  government.  It  is, 
landlord,  it  is  the  very  philosopher's  stone.  I  am  told, 
likewise,  that  this  same  great  doctor  does  not  believe  that 
Solomon  and  others  really  meant  lichen^  in  the  proper 
sense  of  the  word,  when  they  talked  so  much  about  using 
the  rod,  &c.  He  supposes  that  they  meant  confining 
them  in  dungeons,  starving  them  for  three  or  four  days 
at  a  time,  and  then  giving  them  a  potion  of  tatromat- 
tucks,  and  such  kinds  of  mild  punishment.  And, 
zounds,  landlord,  I  believe  he's  above  half  right. 

Land.     {Giving  the  cup    to   the  master.)     Master 

What  may  I  call  your  name,  sir,  if  I  may  be  so  bold  ? 

Master.     Ignoramus,  at  your  service,  sir. 

Land.  Master  Ignoramus,  I  am  glad  to  see  you. 
You  are  the  very  man  we  wish  for.  Our  committee 
won't  hesitate  a  moment  to  employ  you,  when  they  be- 
come acquainted  with  your  talents.  Your  sentiments  on 
government  I  know  will  vsuit  our  people  to  a  nicety.  Our 
last  master  was  a  tyrant  of  a  fellow,  and  very  extrava- 
gant in  his  price.  He  grew  so  important,  the  latter  part 
of  his  time,  that  he  had  the  'frontery  to  demand  ten  dollars 
a  month  and  his  board.  And  he  might  truly  be  said  to 
rule  with  a  rod  of  iron ;  for  he  kept  an  ironwood  cudgel 
in  his  school,  four  feet  long ;  and  it  was  enough  to  chfil 
one's  blood  to  hear  the  shrieks  of  the  little  innocents, 
which  were  caused  by  his  barbarity.  I  have  heard  my 
wife  say  that  Sue  Gossip  told  her  that  she  has  seen  the 
marks  of  his  lashes  on  the  back  of  her  neighbor  Eymple's 
son.  Darling,  for  twelve  hours  after  the  drubbing.  At 
least,  the  boy  told  her  with  his  own  mouth  that  they 
might  be  seen,  if  they  would  only  take  the  trouble  to 


KNTERTAII^  ING   DIALOGUES.  801 

examine  him.  And,  besides,  Master  Ignoramus,  he 
was  the  most  niggardly  of  all  the  human  race.  I  don't 
suppose  that  my  bar-room  was  one  dollar  the  richer  fof 
him  in  the  course  of  the  whole  time  which  he  tarried 
with  us.  While  the  young  people  of  the  town  were  rec- 
reating themselves,  and  taking  a  sociable  glass  of  an  eve- 
ning, at  my  house,  the  stupid  blockhead  was  etarnally  in 
his  chamber,  poring  over  his  musty  books.  But  finally 
he  did  the  job  for  himself,  and  I  am  rejoiced.  The 
wretch  had  the  'dacity  to  box  little  Sammy  Puny's  ears 
at  such  an  intolerable  rate  that  his  parents  fear  the  poor 
child  will  be  an  idiot  all  the  days  of  tis  life.  And  all 
this  for  nothing  more  than,  partly  by  design  and  partly 
through  mere  accident,  he  happened  to  spit  in  his  master's 
face.  The  child  being  nephew  to  the  'squire,  you  may 
well  suppose  that  the  whole  neighborhood  was  soon  in 
an  uproar.  The  indignation  of  the  mother,  father,  aunts, 
uncles,  cousins,  and  indeed  the  whole  circle  of  acquaint- 
ance, was  roused;  and  the  poor  fellow  was  hooted  out 
of  town  in  less  than  twenty-four  hours. 

Master.  {Drinking  off  his  liquor.)  This  is  a  rare  dose. 
Believe  me,  landlord,  I  have  not  tasted  a  drop  before 
since  six  o'clock  this  morning.  {Enter  parson  and  com- 
mittee-men.) Your  humble  sarvant,  gentlemen.  I  under- 
stand you  are  in  want  of  a  schoolmaster. 

Parson.  Yes,  sir ;  that  is  the  occasion  of  our  present 
meeting.  We  have  been  so  unfortunate  as  to  lose  one 
good  man ;  and  we  should  be  very  glad  to  find  another. 

Is^  Committee-man.  Pray  don't  say  unfortunate^  parson. 
1  think  we  may  consider  ourselves  as  very  fortunate^  in 
having  rid  the  town  of  an  extravagant  coxcomb,  who 
was  draining  us  of  all  the  money  we  could  earn,  to  fill 
his  purse  and  rig  himself  out  with  fine  clothes. 

2d  Com.  Ten  dollars  a  month  and  board,  for  a  man 
whose  task  is  so  easy,  is  no  small  sum. 

3o?  Com.  I  am  bold  to  affirm  that  we  can  procure  a 
better  man  for  half  the  money. 

Master.  That  I  believe,  friend ;  for,  though  I  esteem 
myself  as  good  jis  the  best — that  is  to  say,  in  the  com- 
mon way — yet  I  never  ax'd  but  five  dollars  a  month  in 
all  my  life. 

Parson.  For  mv  own  part,  whattiver  these  geutle- 
26 


802  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

men  s  opinion  may  be,  I  must  tell  you  that  I  am  much 
less  concerned  about  the  wages  we  are  to  give  than  I  am 
about  the  character  and  abilities  of  the  man  with  whom 
we  intrust  the  education  of  our  children.  I  had  much 
rather  you  had  said  you  had  received  forty  dollars  a 
month  than  five. 

1st  Com.  Dear  sir,  you  are  beside  yourself.  You  will 
encourage  the  man  to  rise  in  his  price ;  whereas  I  was  in 
hopes  he  would  have  fallen  at  least  ^ne  dollar. 

Parson.  Before  we  talk  any  further  about  the  price, 
it  is  necessary  that  we  examine  the  gentleman  according 
to  law,  in  order  to  satisfy  ourselves  of  his  capability  to 
serve  us.  Friend,  will  you  be  so  obliging  as  to  inform 
us  where  you  received  your  education,  and  what  your 
pretensions  are  with  respect  to  your  profession  ? 

Master.     Law,  sir  !  I  never  went  to  college  in  my  life. 

Parson.  I  did  not  ask  you  whether  you  had  been  to 
college  or  not.  We  wish  to  know  what  education  you 
have  had,  and  whether  your  abilities  are  such  as  that  you 
can  do  yourself  honor  in  taking  the  charge  of  a  common 
English  school. 

Master.  Gentlemen,  I  will  give  you  a  short  history  of 
my  life.  From  seven  to  fifteen  years  of  age  I  went  to 
school  perhaps  as  much  as  one  year.  In  which  time  I 
went  through  Dil worth's  Spelling-book,  the  Psalter,  the 
New  Testament,  and  could  read  the  newspaper  without 
spelling  more  than  half  the  words.  By  this  time,  feel- 
ing a  little  above  the  common  level,  I  enlisted  a  soldier 
in  the  army,  where  I  continued  six  years,  and  made  such 
proficiency  in  the  military  art  that  I  w^as  frequently 
talked  of  for  a  corporal.  I  had  likewise  larn'd  to  write 
considerably,  and  to  cipher  as  fur  as  division.  The 
multiplication-table  I  had  at  my  tongue's  end,  and  have 
not  forgot  it  to  this  day.  At  length,  receiving  a  severe 
flogging  for  nothing  at  all,  I  am  not  ashamed  to  own  that 
I  deserted,  and  went  into  one  of  the  back  settlements, 
and  offered  myself  as  a  teacher.  I  was  immediately  em- 
ployed in  that  service ;  and,  though  I  am  obliged  to  say 
it  myself,  I  do  assure  you  I  soon  became  very  famous. 
Since  that  time,  which  is  eleven  years,  I  have  followed 
the  business  constantly — at  ""east  every  winter ;  for  in  the 
summer  it  is  not  customary,  in  the  towns  in  general,  t-^ 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  808 

continue  a  man's  school.  One  thing  I  would  not  forget 
to  mention  ;  and  that  is,  I  have  traveled  about  the  country 
so  much,  and  been  in  the  army  so  long,  (which  is  allowed 
to  be  the  best  school  in  the  world,)  that  I  consider  myself 
as  being  thoroughly  acquainted  with  mankind.  You 
will  not  be  insensible,  gentlemen,  of  what  great  import- 
ance this  last  acquisition  is  to  one  who  has  the  care  of 
3'outh. 

Sd  Com.  I  admire  his  conversation.  I  imagine,  by 
this  time,  you  have  ciphered  clear  through ;  have  you 
not,  sir? 

Master.  Why,  as  to  that,  1  have  gone  so  fur  that  I 
thought  I  could  see  through.  I  can  tell  how  many  min- 
utes old  my  great-grandfather  was  when  his  first  son  was 
born,  how  many  barley-corns  it  would  take  to  measure 
round  the  world,  and  how  old  the  world  will  be  at  the 
end  of  six  thousand  years  from  the  creation. 

1st  Com.  It  is  very  strange  1  You  must  have  studied 
hard,  to  learn  all  these  things,  and  that  without  a  master, 
too. 

Master.  Indeed  I  have,  sir ;  and,  if  I  had  time,  I  could 
tell  you  things  stranger  still. 

Parson.  Can  you  tell  in  what  part  of  the  world  you 
were  born — whether  in  the  torrid,  frigid,  or  temperate 
7.one  ? 

Master.  I  was  not  born  in  the  zoon,  sir,  nor  in  any 
other  of  the  West  India  islands;  but  I  was  born  in  New 
England,  in  the  state  of  New  Jersey,  and  commonwealth 
of  the  United  States  of  America. 

Parson.  Do  you  know  how  many  parts  of  speech 
there  are  in  the  English  language  ? 

Master.  *  How  many  speeches !  Why,  as  many  as 
there  are  "  stars  in  the  sky,  leaves  on  the  trees,  or  sanda 
on  the  sea-shore." 

Ist  Com.  Please  to  let  me  ask  him  a  question,  parson. 
IIow  many  commandments  are  there? 

Master.  Ten,  sir ;  and  I  knew  them  all  before  I  went 
mto  the  army. 

Id  Com.  Can  you  tell  when  the  moon  changes,  by  tlie 
almanac  ? 

Master.  No  I  But  I'll  warrant  you  I  could  soon  tell 
by  ciphering. 


304  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Sd  Com.  How  many  varses  are  there  in  the  119th 
psalm  ? 

Master.  Ah!  excuse  me  there,  if  you  please,  sir;  I 
never  meddle  with  psalmody  or  metaphysics. 

Parson.  Will  you  tell  me,  my  friend,  what  is  the  dif 
ference  between  the  circumference  and  the  diameter  of 
the  globe? 

Master.  There  you  are  too  hard  for  me  again.  I  never 
larn'd  the  rule  of  circumstance  nor  geometry.  I'll  tell 
you  what,  gentlemen,  I  make  no  pretensions  to  minister 
larnin',  lawyer  larnin',  or  doctor  larnin' ;  but  put  me 
upon  your  clear  schoolmaster  larnin',  and  there  I  am  even 
with  you. 

1st  Com.  I  am  satisfied  with  the  gentleman.  He  haa 
missed  but  one  question ;  and  that  was  such  a  metatistical 
one  that  it  would  have  puzzled  a  Jesuit  himself  to  have 
answered  it.  Grentlemen,  shall  the  master  withdraw  a 
few  minutes,  for  our  further  consultation  ?    {JExit  master.) 

2d  Com.  I  am  much  pleased  with  the  stranger.  He 
appears  to  be  a  man  of  wonderful  parts ;  and  I  shall 
cheerfully  agree  to  employ  him. 

Sd  Com,.  For  my  part,  I  don't  think  we  shall  find  a 
cheaper  master ;  and  I  move  for  engaging  him  at  once. 

Parson.  Gentlemen,  how  long  will  you  be  blind  to 
your  own  interest?  I  can  say,  with  you,  that  I  am  per- 
fectly satisfied — that  the  man  is,  in  his  profession,  em- 
phatically what  he  calls  himself  l3y  name,  an  ignoramus; 
and  totally  incapable  of  instructing  our  children.  You 
know  not  who  he  is,  or  what  he  is — whether  he  be  a 
thief,  a  liar,  or  a  drunkard.  The  very  terms,  on  which 
he  offers  himself,  ought  to  operate  as  a  sufficient  objection 
against  him.  I  am  sensible  that  my  vote  will  now  be  of 
no  avail,  since  you  are  all  agreed.  I  have  been  for  years 
striving  to  procure  a  man  of  abilities  and  morals  suitable 
for  the  employment — and  such  a  one  I  had  obtained ;  but, 
alas !  we  were  unworthy  of  him.  We  aspersed  his  char- 
acter, invented  a  multitude  of  falsehoods,  magnified  every 
trifling  error  in  his  conduct,  and  even  converted  his  vir- 
tues into  vices.  We  refused  to  give  him  that  pecuniary 
reward  which  his  services  demanded ;  and  he,  knowing 
his  own  worth  and  our  unworthiness,  has  left  us  forever. 
1st  Corn.     Come,  come,  parson,   it  is  easy  for  salary 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  806 

men  to  talk  of  liberality,  and  to  vote  away  money  which 
they  never  earned ;  but  it  won't  do.  The  new  master,  I 
dare  engage,  will  do  as  well  or  better  than  the  old  one. 
Landlord,  call  him  in  for  his  answer. 

Parson.  I  protest  against  your  proceeding,  and  with- 
draw myself  forever  from  the  committee.  But  I  must 
tell  you,  your  children  will  reap  the  bitter  consequences 
of  such  injudicious  measures.  It  has  always  been  sur- 
prising to  me  that  people  in  general  are  more  willing  tc 
pay  their  money  for  any  thing  else  than  for  "the  om 
thing  needful " — that  is,  for  the  education  of  their  chil 
dren.  Their  tailor  must  be  a  .workman,  their  earpentei 
a  workman,  their  hair-dresser  a  workman,  their  hostler  a 
workman  ;  but  the  instructor  of  their  children  must — 
work  cheap  !  {Exit  parson.) 

{Re-enter  Schoolmaster.) 

\st  Cora.  We  have  agreed  to  employ  you,  sir ;  and 
have  only  to  recommend  to  you  not  to  follow  the  steps 
of  your  predecessor.  This  is  an  "  age  of  reason  ;  "  and 
we  do  not  imagine  our  children  so  stupid  as  to  need  the 
rod  to  quicken  their  ideas,  or  so  vicious  as  to  require  a 
moral  lesson  from  the  ferule.  Be  gentle  and  accommo- 
dating, and  you  have  nothing  to  fear. 

Land.  I'll  answer  for  him.  He's  as  generous  and 
merry  a  lad  as  I've  had  in  my  house  this  many  a  day. 


•DIALOGUE    XCI. 

THINK  FOR  YOURSELF. 

Henry,  Charles,  and  Uncle  Peter,  the  politician. 
{Enter  Henry  and  Charles.) 

Henry.  What  do  you  think  of  the  lecture  that  we 
had  last  night,-  Charles  ? 

Charles.     Think  of  it  ?     I  like  it,  of  course. 

Henry.  Of  course!  Yes,  and  that  is  the  way  that 
most  lectures  are  liked ;  and  a  poor  way  it  is.  For  every 
thing  should  be  liked  or  disliked  according  to  its  merits. 

26* 


S06  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Charles.  I  know  that ;  but  surely  you  wouldn't  ex 
pect  me  to  be  so  unlike  the  rest  of  the  world  as  to  like  a 
thing  irrespective  of  the  opinions  of  others  ? 

Henry.     So,  then,  you  think  as  others  do  ? 

Charles.  Indeed,  I  am  no  philosopher,  nor  oddity 
either,  and  don't  mean  to  be.  Why,  Henry,  the  great 
thing  in  life — the  magnum  honum^  as  the  Latins  say — is 
to  be  popular. 

Henry.  And  so  you  must  have  no  opinion  of  your 
own? 

Charles.  Why,  yes;  you  must  have  every  body's 
opinion.     Do  you  want  to  be  odd,  or  a  sage  ? 

Henry.  I  don't  want  to  be  either.  I  want  to  be  a 
man. 

Charles.  You  do  I  Well,  you  will  never  be  a  man 
till  you  can  think  as  other  men  do.  You  remember 
what  Uncle  Peter  said  of  the  sermon  last  Sunday — don't 
you? 

Henry.  Why,  yes ;  he  said  that  it  was  a  very  good 
one — and  it  was. 

Charles.  So  it  was ;  but  he  hadn't  heard  a  word  of  it, 
for  he  slept  all  the  time. 

Henry.  And  how,  then,  could  he  say  that  it  was  a 
very  good  one  ? 

Charles.  Why,  he  knew  that  it  was  safer  to  say  so 
than  the  contrary ;  that  is,  more  popular — for  you  know 
that  every  body  likes  the  preacher. 

Henry.  Pshaw !  It  is  no  such  thing,  Charles.  Uncle 
Peter  never  would  say  a  thing  unless  it  was  so ;  and,  be- 
sides, he  doesn't  care  a  fig  about  popularity. 

Charles.  He  doesn't?  Why,  hasn't  he  an  office  al- 
ready ?     And  doesn't  he  expect  a  higher  one  ? 

Henry.  He  has  no  office  in  the  church,  and  I  pre- 
sume that  he  doesn't  expect  any  there. 

Charles.  Why,  Henry,  he  is  maneuvering  every  day 
to  get  one — if  not  in  church,  in  state ;  and  that  is  what 
makes  him  so  pleasing  and  polite.  Why,  he  is  polite  to 
every  body  he  meets. 

Henry.  Polite  ?  I  hope  he  is.  Every  body  is  polite, 
or  ought  to  be. 

Charles.  No;  but  Uncle  Peter  is  very  polite,  ex- 
tremely polite  now,  and  he  never  was  before  he  engaged 


ENTERTAINING   DIALOGUES.  307 

m  politics,  and  expected  an  office.  And  that  isn^t  all ; 
he  likes  every  body  and  every  thing  that  he  sees  or 
hears — indeed,  every  thing  that  he  doesn't  see  or  hear — 
just  as  he  liked  the  sermon  last  Sunday,  which  he  didn't 
hear  at  all.  And  Uncle  Peter  would  say  that  he  liked 
the  lecture,  too,  last  evening,  if  you  should  ask  him, 
oven  though  he  didn't  hear  one  word  of  it  I 

Henry.  Charles,  I  am  astonished  to  hear  you  talk  so. 
Indeed,  I  think  it  is  slander — real,  downright  slander; 
for  Uncle  Peter- is  a  man  of  sense,  and  a  man  of  judg- 
ment ;  and  besides 

Charles.  Hush,  Henry — there  comes  Uncle  Peter; 
and  now  just  ask  him  if  he  didn't  think  the  lecture  an 
extremely  good  one,  just  as  he  did  the  sermon  last  Sun- 
day ;  and  yet  he  slept  all  the  time  that  he  was  present, 
for  the  lecturer  told  me  so  himself. 

{Enter  Uncle  Peter,  very  grave  and  dignified.) 

Henry.  Good  evening,  Uncle  Peter  ;  I  am  very  hap  • 
py  to  see  you.     I  hope  you  are  very  well,  sir. 

Uncle  Peter.  Very  well,  indeed.  And  whom  have 
you  here,  discussing  so  warmly  with  you  ? 

Henry.     My  school-fellow,  Charles  Morton,  sir. 

Uncle  Peter.  Ah  I  Charles,  have  you  begun  to  de- 
bate already  ?  Kather  too  soon  in  life,  I  think,  to  begin, 
sir 

Charles.  Why,  sir,  Henry  Dormer  was  advocating 
the  old  fogy  doctrine  that  every  person  should  think  for 
himself 

Uncle  Peter.     Very  dangerous  doctrine,  Henry,  very. 

Henry.     Why  so.  Uncle  Peter  ? 

Uncle  Peter.     It  makes  one  so  unpopular. 

Henry.  And  shouldn't  a  man  have  an  opinion  of  his 
own,  sir? 

Uncle  Peter.  He  shouldn't  be  singular,  if  he  means  to 
succeed.  Fall  in  with  the  world,  fall  in,  Henry.  This 
is  the  safest  maxim. 

Henry.  But  isn't  it  better  to  be  right  than  to  be  popu- 
lar ?     Mr.  Clay  thought  that  it  was,  you  remember,  sir. 

UncU  Peter.  0,  he  was  an.  old  fogy,  my  son ;  the 
times  are  changed  since  his  day.      If  you  mean  to  do 


308  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

any  good  these  days,  jou  must  fall  in  with  the  multitude, 
and  try  to  be  their  leader.  Then  you  can  conduct  them 
wherever  you  will,  and  do  what  you  have  a  mind  to  do 
with  them.  That  was  the  way  Napoleon  did,  and  Grcn- 
eral  Jackson. 

Charles.  Uncle  Peter,  what  do  you  think  of  the  lec- 
ture, last  evening  ? 

Uiicle  Peter.  0,  it  was  excellent,  truly  excellent,  every 
part  of  it. 

Charles.  And  which  part  did  you  like  best.  Uncle 
Peter? 

Unch  Peter.  It  was  all  good,  Charles,  all  of  it;  1 
shouldn't  like  to  discriminate.     It  might  be  invidious. 

Charles.  Then  you  agree,  with  the  people  generally, 
that  the  lecturer  acquitted  himself  most  handsomely  ? 

Uncle  Peter.  Indeed,  I  do.  I  do  not  see  how  he 
could  have  done  better. 

Henry.  But,  Uncle  Peter,  he  said  that  every  man 
should  think  for  himself 

Uncle.  Peter.  Ah !  He  did,  Henry !  Well,  really,  ] 
have  forgotten  that  part  of  his  lecture.  Why — why — 
Henry!     {Confused) 

Henry.  And  he  said,  too,  that  politicians  were  greatl^r 
in  fault  at  the  present  day  for  falling  in  with  the  senti- 
ments of  the  people. 

Uncle  Peter.  Is  it  possible,  Henry?  Surely,  I  must 
have  been  off  my  guard,  for  I  don't  recall  that  expres- 
sion now. 

Henry.  And  he  said,  moreover,  that  politicians  were 
a  time-serving  set  of  people,  any  way,  and  ought  to  be 
kicked  out  of  the  community. 

Uncle  Peter.  He  did !  Well,  really,  really !  But  it 
was  his  lecture  as  a  whole  that  I  admired,  Henry.  Good 
evening.     {Exit  ZTncle  Peter.) 

Charles.  There,  Henry,  is  a  popular  man ;  and,  if  you 
wish  to  succeed  in  the  world,  you  must  be  like  him ;  foi 
every  body  is  going  to  vote  for  him,  and  he  will  get  into 
office  as  sure  as  your  name  is  Henry  Dormer.     {Exeunt) 


ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES.  309 

DIALOGUE    XCII. 

THE  GOLD  FEVER. 

Mr.  Sanguine.  (Alone,  seated,  and  reading  a  paper.) 
Here  it  is  again  !  gold,  gold,  gold — nothing  but  Califor- 
nia gold  I  I  can't  take  up  a  newspaper,  but  the  first 
thing  I  see  is  all  about  the  gold  in  California.  0  !  how 
rich  the  people  of  that  country  must  be  !  I  really  wish 
I  was  there.  Well,  why  can't  I  be  there  ?  Why  can't 
I  have  some  of  the  yellow  stuff  as  well  as  other  folks  ? 
It  can  be  had  for  the  digging,  I  suppose.  (Rises.) 
Faith,  I'll  go  I — ^yes,  I'll  go  and  set  right  about  it 

(Enter  Mr.  Prudent.) 

Mr.  Prudent.  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Sanguine  ?  (Shalic 
hands.)  Am  glad  to  see  you.  Any  news  to-day  ?  I  see 
you  have  the  paper. 

Mr.  S.  Kews,  'Squire  Prudent  ? — yes,  news  enough — 
glorious  news — all  about  the  gold  in  California.  One 
man  digs  a  hundred  dollars'  worth  in  a  day,  another  a 
cool  thousand,  while  another  picks  up  ten  pounds  in  a 
single  lump ;  and  there  is  no  end  to  it.  I  want  my 
share,  and  I've  just  determined  that  I  "will  set  off  and 
dig  for  it. 

Mr.  P.  But  don't  be  in  haste,  friend  Sanguine. 
Have  you  considered  the  difficulties  of  such  an  under- 
taking ? 

Mr.  S.  No,  nor  do  I  wish  to.  What's  the  use  of 
considering  at  all  about  it?  I've  been  pounding  on  a 
lapstone  long  enough ;  and  now  I'm  going  to  throw  aside 
my  awl  and  last,  and  go  to  digging  gold,  just  as  you 
would  dig  potatoes. 

Mr.  P.  Your  new  occupation  may  prove  to  be  very 
small  potatoes  to  you,  after  all,  and  I  advise  you  to  take 
time  to  think  of  it. 

Mr.  S.  Think  of  it!  That's  just  like  ycu,  'Squire 
Prudent — you  are  always  taking  time  to  think  of  it.  I 
have  been  thinking  of  it.  I've  thought  how  much  bet- 
ter it  is  to  be  washing  out  a  cool  hundred  dollars  of  yel- 
low gold  every  day  than  it  is  for  me  to  be  here  pounding 


810  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

pegs  into  sole-leather  for  a  paper  dollar  made  of  old 
rags. 

Mr.  P.  But  have  you  thought  of  leaving  Peggy  and 
the  children?  Your  good  wife  would  cry  her  eyes  out 
if  she  thought  you  was  going  to  leave  her. 

Mr.  S.  Well,  let  her  cry ; — she'll  laugh  enough  to 
pay  for  it  by  and  by,  and  the  children  too.  I'd  have  you 
to  know  that  I'm  coming  back  again,  and  with  a  pretty 
smart  lot  of  gold,  too.  Then  how  Peggy's  eyes  will 
brighten  up !  The  first  thing  I'll  do  after  I  get  home 
will  be  to  throw  all  my  old  crockery  and  spoons  out  of 
the  window,  and  make  a  bonfire  of  all  my  best  furni- 
ture. 

Mr.  P.     Well,  what  next  ? 

Mr.  S.  Why,  I'll  buy  Peggy  a  thousand-dollar  shawl, 
and  a  diamond  breastpin  worth  five  hundred. 

Mr.  P.  But  how  will  your  wife's  dress  correspond 
with  your  snug  little  cottage  ? 

Mr.  S.  The  snug  little  cottage?  why,  I'll  make  a 
pig-sty  of  it,  and  build  a  better  house  than  you  can  find 
in  Beacon  street,  I'll  assure  you. 

Mr.  P.     What  next  ? 

Mr,  S.  {Scratching  his  head.)  Well,  let's  see — 0,  that 
confounded  old  lapstone !  I'll  take  a  big  sledge-hammer 
and  break  it  into  a  thousand  pieces.  I'll  pound  it  into 
grains  no  bigger  than  gold-dust. 

Mr.  P.     What  will  you  do  with  your  other  tools  ? 

Mr.  aSI  Why,  I'll  run  my  awl  into  the  first  man  that 
iares  say  I  ever  was  a  shoemaker ;  and,  if  he  persists 
vn  it,  I  will  knock  him  down  with  my  last. 

Mr.  P.  Before  making  any  further  disposal  of  your 
treasure,  would  it  not  be  well  to  look  at  the  difficulties 
of  getting  it  ? 

Mr.  _S.  Difficulties  again  I  I  tell  you  there's  no  diffi- 
culty about  it.  In  the  first  place,  {counts  on  his  fingers,) 
there's  the  gold  in  California ;  secondly,  there's  a  great 
deal  of  it ;  thirdly,  I'm  going  to  dig  it ;  fourthly,  I'll 
bring  it  home ;  and,  fifthly,  I'll  spend  it.  Isn't  that  good 
logic  ? 

Mr.  P.  Capital !  But  it  may  prove  false  logic,  after 
all;  for  our  old  friend,  Skipper  Seago,  has  just  come  home 
from  the  famous  gold  region,  without  a  bit  of  gold. 


ENTERTAINING    DIALOGLES.  811 

Mr.  S.  {Scratching  his  head,  and  looking  blank.) 
Whew  I  whew  I  you  don't  say  so.  What's  the  reason, 
hey? 

Mr.  P.  Ah  I  here  he  comes  now  and  he  will  answer 
for  himself. 

{Sengo  enters.) 

Mr.  S.  How  are  you,  Captain  Seago  ?  (Shake  handa) 
They  tell  me  you  are  right  from  the  gold  region. 

Uaptain  Seago.  Yes,  and  glad  enough  to  get  home 
again  too,  I  can  tell  you. 

Mr.  S.     Why  so? — ain't  there  any  gold  there ? 

Gapt.  S.  Yes,  gold  enough,  and  "nothing  else,"  as 
the  saying  is. 

Mr.  S.  Well,  what  do  you  want  any  thing  else  for,  if 
there's  plenty  of  gold?  Won't  that  get  you  all  you 
want,  and  more  too,  hey  ? 

Gapt.  S.  May  be  'twill  here,  but  it  won't  in  the  gold 
country.  I  left  the  ship,  like  a  fool,  and  spent  seven 
months  in  working  in  the  hot  sun  like  a  dog,  and  now 
I've  got  home  without  a  single  shot  in  the  locker,  and 
only  wish  I'd  never  seen  any  gold-dust. 

Mr.  S.     How  is  it  that  all  others  do  so  well  ? 

Gapt.  S.  So  well,  hey  ?  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Sanguine,  of 
eight  men  who  left  our  ship,  I  am  the  only  one  lucky 
enough  to  get  home  at  all. 

Mr.  S.     Are  all  the  others  still  digging  gold  ? 

Gapt  S.  Ah,  no!  the  poor  fellows  have  all  dug  their 
own  graves  long  ago.  Our  captain  was  sunstruck  in  the 
Sacramento,  while  washing  gold;  two  more  died  of  hard 
work  and  exposure ;  one  died  from  the  bite  of  a  copper- 
head snake ;  two  were  robbed  and  murdered,  while  on 
their  way  to  the  coast  with  their  gold ;  and  the  last  one 
was  lost  in  the  mountains,  and  died  of  starvation.  I  was 
lucky  enough  to  reach  the  coast,  after  giving  all  my  gold 
to  an  Indian  squaw  for  nursing  me  while  I  had  the 
"fever  and  ague." 

Mr.  P.  So  you  see,  friend  Sanguine,  there  are  diffi- 
culties in  your  way,  after  all. 

Mr.  S.  Yes,  and  I'll  be  hanged  if  I'll  go  near  the 
gold. 


312  ENTERTAINING  DIALOGUES. 

Mr.  P.  But  how  is  it  about  the  crockery,  and  the 
spoons,  and  the  thousand-dollar  shawl,  and  the  grand 
house  that  you  was  going  to  build  f 

Mr.  S.  Ah!  'Squire  Prudent,  I  shall  never  again 
despise  the  comforts  of  our  snug  little  cottage,  with  its 
humble  furniture ;  and  I  am  proud  to  say  that  Peggy 
has  got  more  good  sense  than  her  husband,  as  she  values 
the  solid  blessings  of  a  New  England  home  more  than 
all  the  thousand -dollar  shawls  in  the  universe. 

Mr.  P.  I  am  glad  to  find  you  giving  your  wife  credit 
for  so  much  wisdom  ;  but  what  are  you  going  to  do  with 
that  confounded  old  lapstone  of  yours  ? 

Mr.  S.  The  lapstone !  why  I  am  going  to  keep  that 
lapstone,  'Squire  Prudent,  as  my  best  friend  ;  and  people 
will  yet  say  that  Simeon  Sanguine  is  the  happiest  shoe- 
maker that  ever  pounded  sole-leather.  The  lapstone  for 
me,  after  alL 


YB  3689 


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lEPT. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


